


The Sharp Edge of Earth

by dotfic



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Community: deancasbigbang, Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-10-07
Updated: 2011-10-07
Packaged: 2017-10-24 09:32:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 29,242
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/261838
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dotfic/pseuds/dotfic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Having sold his soul to save Sam's life, Dean finds himself in Hell at the mercy of the demon Alastair, who is intent on breaking him. But all that Dean was and is, everyone who's had an impact on him, are still a part of Dean, and he won't break easily. As Dean takes refuge in his own mind to escape the torture, angels gather, ordered to undertake an unusual mission: rescue The Righteous Man from Hell. Castiel knows an invasion of Hell will be difficult, but he has no idea how much this mission will demand of him, how wrong the best-laid plans can go – and how much everything is about to change irrevocably. Meanwhile, Dean's defenses and his hope start to fail. He thinks no one is ever coming to save him.  He's wrong.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Sharp Edge of Earth

**Author's Note:**

> Title is from [“Euridice”](http://www.poetryfoundation.org/poem/182485) by H.D. One line of dialogue and some fanon are lifted from my prior fics. One line of dialogue was shamelessly stolen from _Super 8_ , and there's a paraphrase from J.R.R. Tolkien. More notes and sources for quotations and lyrics [here](http://dotfic.livejournal.com/400702.html). Thank you to geckoholic, my first reader, and to smilla02, for their insightful comments and suggestions, to nyoka for the final polishing, and to maerhys. Written for deancasbigbang 2011. Art by geckoholic. [Art master post & music score](http://bl00dredskies.livejournal.com/77918.html).

The dragonfly hovers at about the level of Dean’s nose, the low buzz mixing with the soft lap of water against the dock’s pilings. He follows its path, his bare feet inches above the surface of the lake, while Sam does the same next to him, head jerking back as the dragonfly swoops too close.

It’s August, and it’s hotter than Hades, except down here by the water that glimmers in the sun. Dad’s gone into town for supplies, telling Dean _look out for Sammy_ , like always, and they’ve spent most of the morning at the lake, watching dragonflies. Not like there's much else to do until Dad gets back.

It's too hot. Dean tastes salt on his upper lip, while the glint of the sun on the lake reminds him of flames.

Sam picks at the scab on his leg.

“Don’t.” Dean whacks him on the arm, and Sam sticks out his tongue. Dean aims for the back of his head but Sam ducks this time.

He’s getting faster, more agile – the other day he pinned Dean during a sparring session, earning a big wide grin from Dad.

“Can we do cook out hot dogs for lunch?” Sam’s fingers inch towards the scab on his leg again.

Dean doesn’t bother stopping him this time – Sam’ll pick at it no matter what. “Yeah. You have to clean up after, though.”

“What? No way!”

“Suck it up, it’s your turn.”

“No, because I did it after lunch yesterday.”

“After I did it twice the day before, remember?”

“Aw, crap.” Sam’s shoulders slump in defeat.

“Whiner.”

“Jackass.”

Sam kicks him, Dean kicks him back, while another dragonfly swoops in, distracting them from fighting. A second dragonfly follows the first, then another, flying in formation as if they’re tiny fighter planes. The buzzing seems too big, blending with a low hum that comes from everywhere.

The pain in Dean’s back, under his shoulder blade, and in his shoulder, twinges sharply but he ignores it and it fades. He’s not going to deal with that right now. The humming noise fades.

“We got any mustard left?” Sammy asks.

“Yeah, and plenty of chips.”

A cloud moves, blocking the sun, their shadows melting away. Dean blinks, seeing a criss-cross of dark lines in the sky. They’re gone as the cloud drifts onward.

Sam’s shoulder bumps against his. “I’m going to figure out a way,” he says, his voice low and intent.

“I know you will.”

A sharp, burning spot of pain jabs at Dean’s shoulder, making him catch his breath. The sweat’s dripping down the back of his neck, tickling. He stands up, curling his toes around the edge of the dock.

Sam laughs. “You aren’t swimming with your clothes on?”

“It’s hotter’n hell. Why not?”

“Hey, wait for me!” Sammy scrambles to his feet, but Dean’s already jumping off the dock.

The water closes around Dean, swallowing him up, pulling him under where it’s murky. Sunlight slants down in hazy shafts of criss-crossing lines. The pain in his back and shoulder burns hotter and hotter despite the cool water. He cries out.

* * *

The hook hadn’t budged from where it dug clean through him. The chains stretched endlessly with no end point and no horizon across a sky that looked like no sky Dean had ever known. It was mottled in ways that reminded him of decaying flesh, lightning threaded through it.

“Sam,” Dean shouted, even though he’d called and called for him over and over already, with no answer from anyone or anything.

He’d been right beside Dean, shoulder touching his. The cold of the water still lingered on Dean's skin.

“Sam. Hey, c’mon, Sam. I was just…Sammy. Jesus fuckin’ Christ.”

He’d been there with that hook through his shoulder for so long, the sharp burn of pain almost didn’t matter any more. It was a part of him.

“Sam?”

Dean shut his eyes, fighting to get back to the dock but all he saw was the patterns on the inside of his eyelids, streaks of red against the black, and when he opened his eyes again, the same endless pattern of the chains. The wind hummed with a relentless, eerie note, low and maddening.

He hadn’t looked down in a while. There wasn’t anything to see, same below as above, but he looked down anyway and yeah, same shit, different viewpoint.

“Sam.” He kept on saying it, because at least that way he knew he still existed. “Sam.”

Even if no one answered. Even if no one ever answered.

* * *

“Don’t you ever think about what it would be like to touch, instead of only watch?” Balthazar asked as he and Castiel perched on the arch of a bridge, watching cars and humans hurrying by below them. It was raining hard, umbrellas bright spots of color. Everything shimmered with wetness, but the drops didn't touch Castiel or Balthazar.

“No,” Castiel said, thinking of Anael, lost to them because she got tired of only watching.

“I mean, take silk for example,” said Balthazar. “Sex.”

“Balthazar, be quiet.”

Their superiors had been muttering, talking urgently amongst themselves, but nothing Castiel could discern for sure. This, after hundreds of years of silence – something significant must have occurred. While he knew the discussions were going on, the specifics of what they said were impossible to make out: it was not for one of his rank to know. He strained to listen anyway, hoping to snatch some small piece of knowledge. He needed to prepare for what was to come – there might be dark days ahead, another battle. It had been a long time.

“At times I almost rather miss Heaven,” Balthazar went on, as thunder rumbled in the restless gray sky. "It's better than all this eternal watching. It's dull, Castiel."

“Hush,” said Castiel.

“Well, aren’t we in a mood!”

Balthazar’s longings, his impatience, his talk of temptation, were not proper for an angel and would get him into trouble. He was too much like Gabriel, who was as lost to them as Anael was, as Lucifer was.

Castiel tried never to think of Lucifer.

The jumble of whispers coalesced into words of command, sharp and clear. The familiar cadences of Enochian pulled at him, after hearing nothing but a multitude of human languages for too long.

“Oh, what’s this?” Balthazar said. Even he could hear it now.

“We’re to take vessels.”

“What was I just saying to you! This is amazing.”

“We’re at war,” Castiel reprimanded.

“Right. Yes. The war. All the more reason to enjoy what we can.”

Castiel decided to ignore that. “We've been ordered to select and begin circling our vessels immediately.”

“I was wondering when those muckety-mucks would actually deploy us.”

“Wait,” Castiel said sharply, sensing Balthazar about to fly off. “We aren’t to take the vessels yet, only prepare and circle them.”

“And why is that?”

“We’re going on a mission first.”

“A mission? To where?”

“Hell.” As he spoke the word, Castiel realized his impatience had perhaps been misplaced. He had no fear of battle, but Hell itself was another matter.

He looked down at the colors of the cars and umbrellas, moving among the silver wetness of the rain. Watching had its advantages.

Balthazar for once said nothing.

* * *

They throw the duffel bags and shovels over the high iron fence, stars the only light. Sam wears a beat-up khaki jacket that Dad handed off to him last week, and Dean’s in a black pea-coat, both of them wearing gloves, but otherwise they haven’t bothered with scarves or hats. The clouds of their breaths rise in the cemetery air. Dean pulls himself up and over the fence, Sam a few seconds behind, clumsier, legs and arms stupidly long. He was better at this before he hit seventeen and another freaky growth spurt. Sam's made of thin muscle now, never seeming completely in control of his limbs, although Dean’s seen him move with ruthless speed when necessary.

Gathering up their supplies, they walk across the damp grass, along the rows of headstones. Names and dates are difficult to read in the darkness. Dean flicks on his penlight, poking the beam at the grave markers. The dark square bulk of a mausoleum rises to his left -- at least this isn’t a crypt job, where they have to break into anything, no need for the crowbar that’s in Dean’s duffel just in case.

Sam moves along steadily in pace with Dean, face so serious Dean wants to tell him _dude, it’s only a job,_ which is funny because usually they're having to try to get through Sam's thick skull the priority of what they do while Sam keeps arguing that there has to be more. The kid doesn't shirk, he's always got Dean's back, but seems like he finds ways to drag his heels about hunting at every opportunity.

But then at times when he does do it, it’s with total focus, putting his whole sharp mind and body into it. If Sam ever decides he _likes_ to hunt, Dean figures all the monsters should start running now.

 _What will become of him without you? What will he become?_

Flames flicker in Dean’s vision and he squeezes his eyes shut, shakes his head, and when he opens them again, the flames are gone.

Dean’s penlight finds the marker of the grave they need, the stone half-sunk into the ground, moss spread around its base. It’s been a long time since anyone put flowers here or pulled out weeds. The salt-and-burn is for the spirit of a man who died in 1952.

“Get the lantern,” Dean says.

Sam sets the gas Coleman on the ground by the headstone, and turns it on. The glow makes the shadows turn sharp.

The blade of Dean’s shovel crunches as it cuts into the earth. “Terrific,” Dean mutters. “Ground’s hard from the cold.”

“At least it’s not frozen,” Sam offers with false brightness. "C'mon," he says, holding out a gloved hand for the shovel. "I'll start it for you."

“When we’re done, I’ll treat you to a beer." Dean hands over the shovel and goes to sit on a headstone.

“Just don’t do it where Dad can catch you. Still not legal, here.” Sam starts to dig, bending over with his hair falling into his eyes, the jacket hanging too loose on him.

“What he doesn’t know won’t hurt him.”

They trade off after a while. Even though the night’s cool, it doesn’t take long for Dean to warm up from the exercise. He starts to sweat under all his layers and shrugs out of his jacket, tossing it next to the lantern.

It’s too hot. He’s drenched in sweat, dull pain throbbing in his back.

Dean shakes his head, chill night air curling around him again. The shovel's heavy in his gloved hands. The sound of the blade scraping dirt falls into a staccato rhythm.

“I promised to get you out of this,” Sam says from his seat on the headstone.

“No, you promised to keep fighting and take care of my car, bitch.”

“I will, jerk. But I also said I’d find a way to save you.” Sam stands up, goes over to the edge of the grave, and kneels. “I’m working on it.”

“I know you are, Sammy.” Dean doesn’t look at him, and when his shovel hits a stone, he bends to pick it up. “I know.” He tosses the stone away.

The ground gets softer the deeper they go. Dean likes the work, the idea that something as basic as a shovel can help rid the world of one more creepy, angry, ugly thing.

Sam grins, teeth bright in the glow of the lamp.

“What?”

“Nothing,” Sam says. “I just – I kind of like working with you like this.”

“Oh, shut up. It's your turn to dig.”

The quiet lasts for about five minutes.

Somehow they wind up in an argument over what the funniest sitcom of all time is and Dean yet again wonders out loud how Sam can be so deficient that he doesn’t think _I Love Lucy_ is hilarious. Sam brings up _The Cosby Show,_ which, sure, great show but not nearly as brilliant as _The Simpsons._ But they’ve always been on the same page about Monty Python and have a lot of it memorized, from long hours waiting in motel rooms, watching marathons on PBS, plus Dean has audio recordings of some of the episodes.

“Am I right in thinking there’s a real frog in here?” Sam’s British accent is ridiculous.

“A dead frog,” Dean says. The air smells of dirt, thick and a little cloying.

“Is it cooked?

“No.” Sam's shovel strikes wood.

“What, a raw frog?” Sam wedges the blade of the shovel under the coffin lid on one side, while Dean jumps down on the other.

“We use only the finest baby frogs, dew picked and flown from Iraq,” Dean recites. “Cleansed in finest spring water, lightly killed, and then sealed in succulent Swiss quintuple smooth tremble cream milk chocolate envelope.”

Dean's hands join Sam's on the shovel. They pushed down, and the coffin lid pops up with the sound of breaking wood. “And lovingly frosted with glucose,” Sam finishes, sounding muffled with his free hand over his nose at the scent of decay.

Pulling himself up onto the grass, Dean goes to his duffel while Sam climbs out after him.

“You want to do the honors?” Dean holds the fluid and matches out to Sam.

“Yeah, sure.”

As the flames rise, the pain in Dean’s back and shoulder intensifies.

He drops to his knees while Sam grabs him, long fingers pushing, looking for wounds or broken bones.

Dean locks his brother’s gaze to his. Sam’s eyes are wide and scared.

"Sam…"

“Dean, don’t, please,” Sam begs.

“I can’t stay,” Dean says. “I keep trying but I can’t.” He shuts his eyes to block out the orange-red glow that’s all around him now, the wrong color for the Coleman gas lamp, and not staying around the coffin where it should be.

Then he can’t feel Sam’s hands gripping his shoulders any more.

* * *

Dean opened his eyes. The hook was gone from his flesh, as were the chains that stretched to infinity. Instead he was in a room with rough walls and a low ceiling, a cave reinforced with brick and mortar that had long ago started to crumble. The air smelled like a coffin buried in mud, and sulfur, stinging his nose. A series of small fires burned on the floor, while more flame flickered from beyond the door.

Leather straps around his wrists and ankles held him against a flat wooden platform, tilted so he was almost upright. He was in the jeans and shirt he'd been in when he'd died – he wasn't sure who or what took his jacket and shoes and socks. Not that it mattered.

“Son of a bitch.” Dean meant for that to come out fierce. Instead his voice sounded thin and frayed. He swallowed, trying to work spit in his mouth. “Sam.” Dean said it to keep saying it, because it was better than not saying it. “Sam!” His voice was absorbed into the stone and flame, lost.

Thin lines in red that could be words or symbols or only random splashes of blood covered the walls.

“That’s as may be,” Dean recited. “It’s still a frog. What else? Well, don’t you even take the bones out? If we took the bones out it wouldn’t be crunchy, would it?”

He gasped for breath, straining against the straps, shouted for Sam again.

Sam didn’t answer.

But this time, someone else did.

* * *

Castiel watched Jimmy Novak pull his car into the driveway of his pleasant, modest house. He watched the man get out of his car, pause, and put his head back to inhale, the lingering glow of sunset on his face. Jimmy had dark hair and a graceful but unimposing frame. He didn’t look like a warrior, but Castiel’s grace pulled strongly towards him, making him wonder if this was what the longing Balthazar spoke of felt like.

As Jimmy walked up the porch steps, the door opened and a girl with long blonde hair stood framed against the light from inside. Castiel’s grace gave another tug at the sight of her. They were _his_ , both of them, although the father was much more suitable as a vessel. The strain of it would be too harsh for a child.

Jimmy spoke and the child, Claire, laughed and immediately answered with a teasing tone in her voice. As he walked past, Jimmy put his hand on the back of her head, gentle and loving as Castiel had seen any human be.

While Claire hurried ahead of him back into the house, Jimmy took off his overcoat, hung it in the closet, and followed the girl into the kitchen. A woman was there preparing dinner, half her attention focused on a book open on the counter. It wasn’t a cookbook – charts and graphs and text filled the pages. A crease of concentration deepened in Amelia’s forehead as she turned a page with a sticky finger.

Circling an arm around Amelia’s waist from behind, Jimmy pressed a kiss to the back of her neck, her hair brushing against his nose. Amelia’s face brightened, and she turned to kiss his cheek before she swatted his hand away when he reached for the spoon, trying to get a taste of whatever she was cooking.

Upstairs, Jimmy pulled off his tie and unbuttoned his shirt before he went into the bathroom to splash water on his face. He took off his suit and changed into jeans and a wrinkled gray t-shirt. He slipped on dirty old sneakers before he went downstairs again.

The Novaks sat down for the meal, and Jimmy led the grace, clasping his wife’s hand on one side, his daughter’s on the other.

He bowed his head and Castiel sensed the longing from him to give back for all that he had, to be more than only a job that left him often restless.

The Novaks startled as Castiel drew a burst of static and music -- Bach -- from the previously quiet stereo. It was a first greeting, a way to let Jimmy know he had arrived, but it was the girl Claire who glanced around as if she knew something was near.

Castiel sent a tiny burst of wind, playful and quick, to stir her napkin, and Claire’s eyes widened.

* * *

“Do you remember this?” Mary holds the jar in her lean, strong fingers, sitting next to Dean on the porch step.

Out on the lawn of their old house in Lawrence, the fireflies blink on and off in the dusk.

“I…maybe,” Dean says, his throat going tight. It’s been a while since he’s dreamed about his mother.

“Maybe you were too little to remember now.” She puts her free hand against the swell in her stomach. “We’d sit like this waiting for your father to come home when he was working overtime at the garage. I helped you catch fireflies.” His mother holds the jar out to him.

A moment ago, it was empty, but now three yellow lights blink within, on-off-on-off. Dean brushes the glass with his fingertips. There are air holes poked in the lid.

“Yeah,” he says. “I do remember this. You let me stay up past my bedtime and you always let the fireflies go after I fell asleep.”

“Didn’t want them to die from being cooped up.” She shrugs. She’s wearing a sleeveless green dress and flip-flops, mosquito bite an angry red spot on her arm. She puts her fingers over Dean’s, presses his grip around the jar. “It’s okay.”

“Used to do this with Sammy.” Dean watches the bugs flying around in the jar. Their light casts a yellow hue over his fingers.

“Yeah?” Mary says, delight in her voice.

“Yeah, in the summer, wherever we were staying when we were kids. I’d take Sammy outside and he’d run around on the grass like a crazy thing, trying to catch all the bugs. Always seemed sorry when he couldn’t.”

“He’s like your father.”

“Well, they're both stubborn,” Dean says. The neighbor’s dog is barking.

“So are you.” She smoothes her fingers through the hair at his forehead, pushing it back, and Dean leans into the touch. Her hand drops away from him as she frowns. “You’ve got to remember this.”

A hot sliver of pain hits Dean’s stomach. As he cries out, his mother closes her hands tightly over his, around the firefly jar.

“Remember,” she tells him.

* * *

“Ah-ah, sunshine,” the voice drawled in Dean’s ear, thick and satisfied. “You stay with me. It’s a lot more fun that way.”

The man was fine-boned, almost gaunt, with dark hair and beard, face hovering inches from Dean’s while his hand pushed the blade of a knife deeper into Dean’s flesh. Dean looked down the line of the man’s arm, and quickly turned away from how much of himself had been carved, his torso turned into a jumble of innards and blood.

Dean’s jaw ached from trying not to scream.

“Atta boy,” the man said. “You bury that pain. I know all about you.” He leaned closer, breath against Dean’s cheek. “I heard that.” He twisted the blade. “There it is again. Just scream already, you stubborn son of a bitch,” he said, voice smooth and slow.

“Fuck you.”

The man’s eyes went all black as he pulled away, laughing. “We’re going to have good times together, you and I.” He put down the blade and picked up another one instead, a long, thin metal instrument about the width of a straw. The demon slid the length of it all the way through Dean's lower arm, until the point struck wood.

He sang under his breath, with a tone almost crooning. “ _For you do something to me that nobody else can do. Let me live ‘neath your spell. Do that voodoo that you do so well._ ”

Dean started to hum the opening of “Attitude."

The demon’s smile widened.

* * *

Castiel wondered about the purpose of this invasion of Hell. The revelations had given him no clues, and an angelic incursion into Hell had not been attempted for a very long time. God threw angels into Hell if they sinned, unless they disappeared like Gabriel or Anael. Lucifer dwelt in a cage there. A wild thought came to him: perhaps it was time for Lucifer to return home.

Usually Zachariah sent revelation from Heaven, but for the briefing on the siege of Hell, he came to earth. Zachariah had been in and out of vessels many times, and had walked among humans. His true form was the size of the Guanzhou West Tower, but like the rest of the garrison, when lurking on earth as a watcher, he shrank himself to accommodate the scale of human life.

While Anael preferred to assemble her soldiers in wild open spaces; Zachariah chose an auditorium in the heart of a large city. As the humans slept, the angels gathered, and Castiel found himself sitting in a chair, which seemed as awkward and completely unnecessary as was Zachariah’s use of the projection screen to show battle formations and statistics. Not that Castiel would dare question the choices of their leader.

Beside him, Uriel radiated skepticism and pent-up energy. “No one knows how many demons are in Hell,” he scoffed.

Sitting on the other side of Castiel, Rachel said, a reprimand in her tone, "Uriel."

Uriel shifted his wings restlessly in response.

Castiel missed Anael’s clear, sharp voice, he missed standing underneath the stars to hear her orders. It was Anael who had taught him to fight, who relentlessly pushed him, who had first noticed his skill as a tactician and intelligence gatherer, and used it more than his fighting skill on the battlefield.

What Uriel said was true. No one knew the full number of the legions of Hell. Castiel had reason to know this better than Uriel, as he and Anael, without consulting their superiors, had studied its perimeter and its mouths and gates. Castiel had the location of the entrances to Hell memorized, all five hundred and six of them. There might have been more; he hadn't found them yet.

The auditorium filled with the rustle of invisible wings as the garrison stirred in their seats.

“What’s this?” Balthazar murmured.

Zachariah had put the image of a human on the screen. The projection booth behind and above them was as dark as the auditorium of course, but it mattered not to angels. The image burned in vivid color against the white.

This wasn’t the first time one particular human had been singled out to Castiel, where he and his brethren were told to watch more closely than usual. He had observed humanity for millennia. But this was the first one to have that distinction in a long time.

Whether the image was a photograph or a moment captured and played back out of time, Castiel didn’t know. It showed a young man, ordinary except for his unusual level of beauty by human standards. Just a man, leaning against the hood of a large black car, with his ankles crossed and his palms resting against the steel on either side of him. He wore battered, mud-stained, deep-treaded shoes and had a grin on his face that put Castiel in mind of Gabriel in a playful mood, or Balthazar when he was trying to talk Castiel into doing something Castiel didn’t want to do.

“Now there’s an excellent argument for touching instead of just looking,” Balthazar said low to Castiel.

“Stop it," Castiel murmured. "That’s hardly appropriate.”

“Relax, brother.” Balthazar gave off more than a hint of impatience. “We’re going into battle, presumably for him. We’re allowed to _look_.”

Castiel offered Balthazar stern silence in return. If he kept this up, they could lose him. Anael had been like that before her disappearance, saying she wanted just once to eat a slice of chocolate cake. It was like a disease, claiming their numbers slowly, one by one.

He turned back to the image.

This man was the reason for the angels venturing into Hell? This ordinary man?

“This,” Zachariah told them, “is Dean Winchester, the Righteous Man, the one who can save humanity.”

Unlike Jimmy Novak, Castiel thought the Righteous Man, this Dean Winchester, looked like a soldier. He studied the image more closely, noted the roughened fingers and dirty fingernails, the scars on the back of his hand.

The way the man leaned back against the car spoke of decades of familiarity, as if the vehicle were an extension of himself, the same way an angel carried wings.

Scenes began to flash by on the screen: a small child running from a burning house at night with a baby wrapped in a blanket clutched in his arms. A freckle-faced boy sitting at a table helping an even smaller boy pour milk on his cereal, and then curled in a sheltering “C” around the smaller boy as they slept on a motel bed.

A broad-shouldered man in a leather jacket guiding the hands of the boy into place on a shotgun, helping him aim at a row of cans on a fence. The man walking into a stained, shabby motel room with a bandage on his arm, kneeling to hold both children fiercely close. Both boys a little older, facing each other as the older one threw a punch, not aiming to harm – Castiel recognized the dance in their movements. This was training, practice.

Then the Righteous Man grown to adulthood, running as a tall, long-limbed younger man fell to his knees, head thrown back in agony. Dean Winchester knelt in the mud holding what Castiel realized was his brother, the smaller child from the earlier images. Castiel glanced away from the fear and grief in the Righteous Man’s expression, wondering how this could unsettle him now, after thousands of years of watching, after everything he'd witnessed. The lines of grief and loss were nothing new to him. He turned back to the images still flickering by in quick succession on the screen.

Dean Winchester dug into the dirt at a crossroads, and he kissed a dark-haired woman whose eyes flashed red. The Righteous Man had sold his soul to a demon, an unthinkable taint. Castiel found himself disappointed. On the screen, Dean and his brother stood together over the engine of the big black car, before the scene changed to a room in a house where a clock struck and the younger man’s face streaked with tears. Hellhounds tore into Dean Winchester’s flesh before the screen went blank.

Next to Castiel, Uriel and Rachel seemed impassive, absorbing the information. Balthazar, not at all impassive, had no quips to make – Castiel sensed feelings of sympathy and loss from him, a reflection of the confused turn of his own thoughts. Castiel couldn’t escape the memory of the man's eyes in the initial image, the warmth and hardness. They made him think of certain kinds of old glass modern humans were fond of collecting.

“The Righteous Man,” Zachariah explained, “is a prisoner of Hell. You must go into Perdition and get him out.”

“Get him out?” Castiel heard the incredulousness and touch of fear under Rachel’s low words.

“It—this has almost never been done,” said Balthazar. Around them the other angels were murmuring and stirring too.

“Rarely,” Castiel said. He hesitated to mention it, but there was precedent. It was a sensitive subject among angels. “God allowed Azrael to return from Purgatory.”

“That was Purgatory, not Hell, and this is a _human._ A mere human,” Uriel said.

Zachariah began to outline the extraction plan. The platoon Castiel belonged to, headed by Tariel, was to act as one of many fending off the demons while Ramiel led a selected squad of angels to seize the Righteous Man and carry him out of Hell.

They were truly going to invade Hell. Castiel understood the dangers of giving in to emotions, but fear washed through him before he could dam it back.

The brush of Uriel’s presence steadied him. “What, Castiel, are you an untested cherub? I’ve seen that sword of yours at work. We’ll go in together. There’s no room for fear.”

“Yes, indeed!” Balthazar said brightly, and Castiel sensed Uriel’s annoyance. He had never approved of Balthazar. “If we’re going to die, at least let’s do it en masse. It will be glorious. The prophets will write books about us.”

* * *

Dean leans back, sinking his body deeper into the Impala's bench, the dips in the upholstery padding molded to his shape more than any other who ever sat there. He rests his palms on the steering wheel, looking above the tips of the pine trees at the stars that scatter across the night sky. The windshield's a little dirty –– he should clean it soon. It's a dry, sparse, cold winter night in what looks like the Pacific Northwest, but the heat lingers in the vents even though the engine is now off. How long ago he stopped, Dean isn't sure. He must've been driving, maybe to go meet Sam. He can't remember where.

Rolling his shoulders, Dean yawns. His hands fall away from the wheel, and he rubs his palms on his thighs, wondering if he should sleep, either here in the driver's seat, or stretched out in the back.

It's so _quiet_ , no sound of other cars, no music, no barking dogs (no screaming).

The duct tape he used to fix a tear in the bench catches his eye, illuminated by the starlight. It's frayed, starting to come off – he'll fix it better, find a patch of the right kind of vinyl. Glove compartment needs a clean-out, too, and he ought to vacuum the footwells, check her oil, the air in the tires, the windshield wiper fluid. Sometimes running from hunt to hunt, all night driving and then both him and Sam aching and tired when they drive off again, he doesn't always keep up maintenance like he wants to. She does get dirty, leaves stuck in her corners, dust coating her rims.

"Sorry, baby," he says, smoothing a hand along the dashboard.

It's okay, she doesn't seem to mind the wait, and it's not as if he doesn't attend to the stuff that needs serious, immediate attention. A weird noise in the engine, a busted light – that gets fixed the moment he has a chance to breathe, sometimes before he gets to sleep.

It's real quiet, warm but not too warm, with the welcome bite of cold hovering beyond the doors, and the stars are nice. He needs to stay, this is where he needs to be, he needs to _stay_ \--

* * *

"You keep slipping away from me." Alastair's fingers were firm on Dean's jaw, jerking his head to get Dean's attention. "That's a neat trick. Helps you block out the pain, doesn't it, kid?" He pushed up the sleeve of Dean's flannel shirt, then trailed the blade of his knife along Dean's arm, not breaking the skin – not there, anyway. "That's cheating."

"Go to –" Dean stopped. He tried to swallow but didn't have enough saliva in his mouth. He wanted water.

"Ah, ah, you'll have to find a new curse to hurl at me." Alastair smiled, teeth showing bright past the dark beard. He dug in with the knife, drawing a thin line of red on Dean's arm.

Dean didn't hiss or clench his teeth. He'd gotten used to it – he was already used to pain when he got there, the injuries hunters suffered on a regular basis. Pain was relative.

"Huh," Alastair said, pulling the knife away. He walked around Dean to his other side. "Maybe I need to get more creative with you. But I can see beneath that stubborn exterior and single-mindedness, you're a quick learner, once you do get it."

"Learn this," Dean said, flipping up his middle finger from where his wrist was bound with a leather strap.

Eyes gone black, Alastair grabbed Dean's finger and bent it back. The bone snapped loud even over the sound of screams that always sounded beyond the door.

A soft hiss of breath was all Dean gave Alastair.

"Had enough?" the demon asked, almost sympathetically. "Say the word and you can get off that rack. Let me put a blade in your hands. There's an artist in you, Dean, a craftsman." The demon stepped back, eyes going human again.

"What, no peeling the flesh from my bones? Aren't you going to rip my eyeballs out?" The heat of anger flared up through Dean's chest, familiar and right, dampening the knowledge that Alastair could do whatever he wanted and it might be more than Dean could take, but fuck it, Alastair didn't need to know that. "Good times, Alastair, c'mon."

Alastair watched Dean a moment longer, expression avid and curious. The bastard was enjoying this. Then Alastair said, "Nope. Not this time."

Dean couldn't control his facial muscles enough – he knew his confusion showed.

"You think demons are entirely without mercy?" Alastair asked.

"Pretty much, yeah."

"Typical." Alastair clicked his tongue against his teeth. "Everything not human's an abomination to you, isn't it."

"You _are_ an abomination."

Alastair stepped forward and Dean couldn't help turning away. The demon put his hand on Dean's head, fingers sliding into Dean's hair. The touch was almost gentle.

"True, I am. And you – still a pure, bright human soul. You call me an abomination all you want. But I can be merciful. So right now I'm going to tell you what I'm going to do to you next. Put off the actual pain a little while and give you time to think about it, to prepare with how I can cut you open and make you eat your own entrails, make it so you'll beg me to sever your spinal cord just so you won't have to feel the agony any more. First I'll tear off all your limbs again." He leaned in closer. "I want to hear you beg."

Dean jerked his body against the restraints, but he'd already pulled away as far as he could go.

Alastair drew his hand away and moved back. His mouth curved into a slow blade of a smile. "Sweet dreams," he said, before he walked through the door and up the rough stone steps.

The light from the fires danced over the broken brick and stone, making a horrific dance of shadow on the walls. It was the first time Alastair hadn't left Dean's body shredded. Or his soul, really -- the pain and the trickle of blood seemed real and solid enough, but he supposed it was his soul, because his body was gone, it had to be. If Sam had any brains, he'd burn it so if Dean's soul ever did get out of here, he couldn't haunt anyone.

Dean checked the marks on the wood he'd made with his fingernail, but he'd forgotten if each mark was a day or a week or a month or a year.

He wriggled his hand until he could scratch another mark, tasting salt and wetness on his lips.

* * *

It was true, what Uriel had said. Castiel wasn't some inexperienced cherub. But his previous battles were all under Anael's close guidance, and he had been a watcher for a long time now. They all had. He wanted to do well, to be worthy – but none of his prior battles had involved going into Hell.

Castiel reviewed strategy, things Anael had taught him, things he'd learned himself at no one's request. He recited to himself the locations of all the entrances to Hell – the _exits_ , he admitted, that was the real significance. The thought of being in Hell and being unable to get out unsettled him.

He was eager for this mission and yet dreaded it and this restlessness, and fear, and how for some mysterious reason he couldn't get the face of The Righteous Man out of his head – none of that was appropriately dispassionate.

It wasn't worthy of a soldier of God. Castiel would have to try harder.

"Only an angel can kill an angel," Uriel said confidently.

"That's not exactly true." Castiel hovered with the others on the slope of Nanga Parbat. "A demon can if it uses an angel blade. And if it doesn't, it can't kill an angel but it can destroy one."  
"Isn't that the same thing?" Rachel asked.

"No, it's not."

Michael had once told Castiel about demons and Hell, one of the few times he had ever seemed to notice Castiel's existence.

"Hell isn't like Earth, or Heaven," Castiel said. "Because it's a different sphere, our powers won't be as they are elsewhere. We'll be weaker there, and it would be much easier for a demon's true form to overcome our grace. We can be –"

"You're talking about possession." Rachel sounded shocked.

"Oh, delightful," said Balthazar. "Can't wait."

"Don't let their true form get too close," warned Castiel.

"Not a problem," said Uriel. "We'll smite them before they have a chance to do anything. A demon going up against an angel's grace has no chance, in any sphere."

"Except for what I said." Castiel sometimes wondered if Uriel took him seriously. "In Hell we won't be as strong as we would be elsewhere. Just as in Heaven, a demon would be weaker."

"A demon's never been in heaven, that I know of," Balthazar said, musing.

"There are angels who have turned," Castiel said. "Azazel was once an angel."

"He went willingly," said Uriel. "He chose to follow Lucifer to the pit, and Lilith herself turned him, under Lucifer's eye, so the story goes." He showed none of the usual horror and disgust most angels displayed when talking of Azazel.

Castiel supposed that the decision to stand by Lucifer, whom Azazel loved, took courage.

"Azazel was a traitor," Rachel snapped.

Castiel sensed Uriel bristling at that and couldn't understand why – it was the truth. Azazel, courageous or not, was a traitor who had turned against the whole of Heaven, left his place as one of God's children to become one of Lucifer's. It had been an unspeakable act of rebellion.

* * *

"Wow, you really got yourself into a mess this time." Ellen grabs a tray and starts gathering dirty shot glasses onto it.

The smells of wood and whiskey and stale beer surround Dean. The Impala, Bobby's house, and the Roadhouse – those are the places that smell like…well, he's not sure "home" is the right word, because he and Sam don't have one. But there's familiarity, sanctuary, things he doesn't expect to keep.

He sits at the table, watching Ellen's brisk movements, her strong fingers around the glasses.

"Yeah, guess I did," Dean says.

"Can't say as I blame you," Ellen says, taking the tray to the bar. "Although I should kick your ass six ways from Sunday." She grabs a towel and starts wiping the tables down a little too vigorously. "You do what you have to do to protect family of course, but Dean—" she stops, towel gripped tight in one hand. "Don't forget that it's a two-way street. You think losing you won't tear Sam to pieces? Not to mention Bobby Singer? Or me, or Jo. Oh, boy." Ellen laughs low in her throat. "Is Jo ever pissed at you."

"You've seen Sam?" Dean's fingers pause in the middle of tracing around the rim of his beer glass.

"I've seen Sam."

"Is he okay—"

"What do you think?" Ellen snaps.

Dean's arms, legs, and shoulders hurt, stinging as if something with claws got him on a hunt. The pain ebbs and fades again. "What else was I supposed to do?"

Ellen drops her towel on the table and sits opposite him. "I don't know." Her gaze flickers to the row of bottles behind the bar, then back to him. "I might've done the same. You want another drink?"

The pain in his body sharpens again. He breathes in deep, clenching his fingers around the table's edge, holding on. He has to hold on. "Yes," he says.

When she returns to the table, Ellen's got a bottle of bourbon and two clean glasses. She pours for both of them, then holds her glass out towards Dean's.

He raises an eyebrow.

"To someone saving you." Ellen knocks her glass against his.

That's not what he expected her to say.

"It doesn't—" Dean starts.

"Yeah, it does." Ellen jaw tightens a moment. "You think you're done, you've saved Sam and that's it, your work's finished." She tilts her head back, knocking down a few swallows of bourbon, then puts the glass down and leans a little closer. "You don't belong where you are, and you don't deserve what's happening to you, and you know it. Remember this, hear me?"

Her tone is such that Dean says "yes, ma'am," automatically.

The pain intensifies. He grabs the table again, fingers splayed on the roughened surface.

* * *

"Stay with me, kid." A hand slapped Dean's cheek as the wood-beer-dust smell of the Roadhouse faded and Dean's eyes snapped open. Alastair smiled at him in a crooked way, almost fond as he dug the point of a shining pair of surgical scissors into Dean's arm and dragged the blade downward. Another line of blood welled up against Dean's skin to join the others.

"He's been trying to escape," a female voice, gliding in a smooth drawl, spoke. Cool fingers brushed the back of Dean's wrist, tugged at the leather straps. "See? He's nearly worn them through. Your boy's a determined one."

"He's gotten out once or twice," Alastair said, pulling the scissors away from Dean's skin. Blood dripped in a fine trail – Dean found himself watching it, transfixed. "Where did you think you were going to go, Dean? You think you could just walk out of hell on your own?"

"My father did," Dean said, trying to make it sound like a threat.

Dean had escaped from his bonds many times. Not lately, though -- it seemed like he hadn't managed to do it in a while. He couldn't quite remember. Each time he'd made his way into the tunnels, stumbling because his legs had nearly forgotten how to walk even though his muscles had magically avoided atrophying. There had been other souls, screaming in pain from rooms like his, pleading for release or mercy or to be taken off the rack, begging to take up the knife, anything if only the pain would stop.

There was the time Dean had braced his hand against the rough stone curve of the wall and touched something. Pulling away, he'd seen a face and the front half of a body struggling, the rest of the soul trapped. It had reached out to him and Dean had raised his hands on instinct to pull the soul free. But the rock had moved, swallowing more of the body like a log sinking into soft mud, the soul's fingers slipping from Dean's touch with unnatural speed.

Or when Dean had discovered another soul chained to the wall, skin gone, leaving only muscle and sinew and blood that somehow held its shape. The soul had opened its mouth in a silent scream, its eyes human and full of agony, begging him to help.

"I'm sorry," Dean had said, "I'm sorry," as he'd stumbled back, falling against the opposite wall before he'd bent over and vomited.

There had been more, a blur of memory. He hadn't been able to help any of them.

Alastair's demons had tracked him down every time, dragged him back kicking and yelling and cursing.

He wasn't sure how he'd expected to get out of Hell, but merely getting away, to move and be free of that room, always that room with the fires on the floor, and away from Alastair, so he could maybe, maybe find a way to escape – the painful want of it beat through his veins.

Alastair put his hand to his beard thoughtfully. "Oh, yes," he said, voice going more sibilant. "Daddy Winchester. Well. It's something to shoot for, I suppose, even if you don't really have the same kind of spine. Maybe the apple doesn't fall far from the tree, or maybe it does. Can't wait to see how you turn out."

The girl winked at him. She had shoulder-length brown hair and a delicate chin, a face that belonged in an old silent movie. Giving the wrist strap another tug, she moved away, put a hand on her hip, cocksure as anything. There was something familiar about her posture, the curve of her lips.

"Aw, Dean." She pouted. "I've been watching Alastair peel the skin from your bones in this stinking room for years and you still don't remember me, do you?"

The girl was sometimes a shadow behind Alastair's shoulder as he worked, her gaze avid. Dean knew that much. Sometimes Alastair did running commentary for her, instructions in how to inflict the most pain, where the arteries were.

 _You pay attention to this too, Dean. You're going to be one of my greatest creations._

As Dean stared at her, her true face flickered in, but it wasn't Ruby's or any demon whose true face he'd ever seen.

"Who are you?" he said. "Not that I give a crap but I've got nothing better to do right now."

"Really, that's so typical. You never call, you never write. And our families go way back. Don't you remember what we were to each other? The fun we had in Chi-town? Or how I wore your brother like a sweet leather jacket?"

"Meg," Dean said tiredly.

Alastair put down the bloodied scissors and picked up a slender, curved object from the metal cart nearby, the blade rusted and dull. He handed it to Meg. Then he stood at Dean's shoulder, stretching his arm across the top of the wooden rack, fabric of his shirt brushing the top of Dean's head. "I know this is hard, Dean, but you're doing very well. I can see it in your eyes, how you're changing. You're smart, Dean. Stubborn, so it takes you a while but you'll get it eventually." Alastair slid his hand down to Dean's shoulder. "Sometimes when swimming against the current is too much of a struggle, it's because we're meant to let the current take us." Alastair's fingers tightened.

"Yeah, but I'm a strong swimmer."

"You are, indeed." Alastair flashed a grin. "Meg here is going to take the wheel today. I'm so proud of her; she's come very far from when I first discovered her. So much raw talent. Took some persuading to get her to come back home." Meg blew a kiss at Alastair as he stepped back and spread his arms theatrically. "Take it away, Meg."

Meg stepped closer to Dean. "Oh, honey, I hope this is as special for you as it is for me." She turned the instrument in her fingers. The parts of the metal that wasn't rusted caught the light from the fires.

The blade slid through what was left of Dean's t-shirt and into his torso, ripping open the flesh just below his ribs. Maybe it was because Alastair was more skilled, less blunt in his work, that it didn't hurt this much when he did it, or because the instrument Meg used was dull. Maybe Dean'd grown tired; he'd stopped making notches in the wood a long time ago.

As Meg turned the blade in him, the agony made his vision go cloudy. Dean screamed for the first time since those early weeks on the chains.

"Do you want off the rack?" Alastair's voice sounded distant, murky. "Say yes, and the pain stops. Just say yes."

"Screw you," Dean gasped out, before Meg cut into him again and he yelled, cursing at first, until the words unraveled into nothing but incoherent sounds.

"Stop fighting what you're meant to become." Alastair came over and threaded his fingers into Dean's hair. He yanked hard, turning Dean's head to make him look at Alastair. The human face flickered away into his true one for a moment. "Pain suits you," he hissed, while Meg severed skin and tendons, cutting down to the bone.

It went on for what had to be hours but Dean had no idea how much time for sure.

Finally, finally, Meg was done and they left him alone.

Dean struggled for breath, the pain something almost academic now, beside the point, he was so used to it. He only had to wait, and his body – no, his soul, he reminded himself again, his body was gone – would knit itself back together. He closed his eyes, the screams, sobs and howls that drifted through the tunnels of stone and fire a dim tumble of sound.

He said his brother's name over and over to drown them out.

* * *

They had their orders. There was to be no single, unified assault on Hell – instead platoons of angels were to enter Hell from different gateways, eventually to converge where the leaders believed The Righteous Man was being held.

The entrance for Castiel's platoon was in a cave near the center of the United States of America. Balthazar and Rachel brushed against him on either side as they waited in the cavern for the orders to go, tension thrumming through their wings. Castiel gripped his blade, realized he'd missed the weight of it, and waited for Tariel to step forward.

Castiel had always found Tariel somewhat intimidating. He was not of course as formidable or as old as the archangels but close. He was a swift, ruthless fighter and could stop a squabble among many angels with a mere glance.

He gestured at his second, Nisroc, who moved to join him. The two gave each other a long steady stare before Tariel nodded and Nisroc began the spell to open the mouth to Hell. Nisroc was a fast, quick fighter, relying more on speed than brute strength, and he and Castiel had spoken many times about strategies, but at that moment his demeanor was as grim and commanding as Tariel's.

Thousands of years of watching, being invisible and intangible on earth ceased as Nisroc finished the spell to open the entrance and a hot howl of wind swept over them, stone grinding and sliding against stone. The angels' true forms snapped onto the earth plane out of the folds of time and space that had hidden them – any living creature that ventured into the cave now would be blinded and consumed by holy fire.

Then Tariel gave the command, and the angels leapt through the jagged hole in the rock, into blackness edged with the light of red fires. Uriel went right after Tariel, sword raised. Nisroc spared Castiel an encouraging nod before he dove after them.

There was no more time for thought. Castiel leapt, wings spreading as he fell into the dark, seemingly infinite space beyond the rocky entrance. The beat of wings filled the air all around him, with the bright forms of his siblings. For a long time there was only the darkness, until Castiel started to miss earthly sunlight.

Then far below them, flickering spots of red appeared – firelight, burning among archways and tunnels, walls and towers of brick or stone, set into the side of a great cavern. The air began to stink of sulfur the lower they went, while screams echoed out from the walls. There were souls chained there on ledges.

Castiel slowed his flight, the pleading in their voices catching at him. Some sounded broken yet still full of hope. Others were in a place beyond rage, screaming their despair. Some taunted them, shouting out what they'd do if they had an angel at their mercy. Castiel sped up with a beat of his wings. He'd seen none of the others in his platoon falter; he should keep his focus on the job at hand.

After a time the bottom of the cavern appeared, covered in more tunnels and broken walls and stairways. A landscape of jagged rocks, skeletal formations that resembled trees, and sharp hills sprawled endlessly towards a red-hazed horizon.

At first Castiel believed their approach had gone unnoticed, but then streams of black smoke rose to greet them. Demons had no wings – that was an angel's primary advantage – but in their smoky form, they were difficult to evade or catch.

Tariel shouted orders, and Castiel began complex flying maneuvers with Balthazar and Rachel and Uriel. They tried to lure the smoke, draw them off so other angels could slice through it with their blades. The smoke shrieked and writhed with each cut, splitting in two, taking a few moments to rejoin each time.

As Rachel and Balthazar swooped upwards, Uriel and Castiel darted down. When they brushed by each other, Castiel caught Balthazar's expression – a mix of delight and fear. This, like many things, Balthazar seemed to treat as a game. His maneuvers were unnecessarily complicated, for no other reason than because he was good at it. Castiel had no idea if that was more alarming or comforting, but several columns of smoke raced towards him and he forgot about Balthazar's oddities. He turned and raced back the way he'd come, while Uriel sliced through one column of smoke and then the next with his sword.

In the distance, Castiel caught sigh of Nisroc as a stream of smoke caught him off-guard. He twisted in flight, slashing with his blade, but another column of smoke billowed towards him, followed by a third. Uriel and Castiel changed direction, but more demons blocked their path, and they were forced to dive away. When they drew clear, Castiel saw Tariel speeding towards Nisroc.

The smoke swarmed over Nisroc. His grace flared brighter, flickered, and then dimmed, demons pouring into his mouth. Tariel, who had never appeared shaken in battle before, slowed his flight for a moment before he darted away, back into the battle. Nisroc was lost.

Castiel turned away quickly, trying to keep his attention on the demons and his flight maneuvers, rather than the uneasy sense of hollowness that had settled into him, chasing the doubt emanating from Tariel.

Four demons were on Castiel before he caught their approach, the smoke circling him. Castiel folded back his wings, dropped, and then spread them to climb again. One of the demons managed to draw close, curling around him like a ribbon. Castiel slashed out with his blade, driving it off before it could touch his grace.

More were coming at him, so many, so _many_.

Two partially resolved into their true form, keeping enough in smoke to stay aloft, mouths wide to show their teeth, claws extended. They slammed into him from the side, knocking Castiel hard against the cavern wall. Castiel cried out as his right wing tore, the pain rippling through his body. With a jolt of realization, he remembered how vulnerable he was in this realm, how vulnerable they all were here. Striking a rock wall should never have been able to hurt him that way.

As he started to fall away from the wall, unable to regain control, the columns of smoke rushed after him. He lost his bearings.

Someone caught him – Uriel.

"Need help?" Uriel said.

"I can't fly," Castiel said, his shame a metallic, brittle thing.

Uriel said no words of encouragement but his grip was sure as he held Castiel and swooped to evade the demons. Castiel looked up and located Rachel and Balthazar, still part of the battle, darting like sparrows, circling to confuse their enemies. Rachel's sword cut through the smoke, Balthazar distracting the other demons to give her room to fight.

A black cloud above them split into a dozen smoke streams. As Uriel twisted to avoid the demons still on their trail, Castiel caught sight of Tariel, sword gleaming through the smoke. Though not as fierce as Anael, Tariel was a formidable, focused warrior who looked after his soldiers, and the sight of him during battles always heartened Castiel.

Uriel swooped again, and Castiel lost sight of his leader. When Castiel again caught a glimpse of Tariel, half a dozen demons had swirled around him.

"Uriel," Castiel warned.

"Yes, I see it."

But before they could change course, three demons raced at them and they had to dive to evade them.

As they rose, Castiel sighted Tariel again, swinging his sword, trying to dart away as the smoke circled ever more tightly around him. Several angels moved in, but four more demons arrived, and the thick black columns of smoke consumed Tariel completely.

Tariel, their leader, was gone, his grace consumed. It didn't seem real – as if Castiel were only a watcher again, couldn't touch what was happening, nor could it touch him, the dizzy pace of the battle and the glint of angel blades through the smoke, the bright flash of wings.

A large cloud of smoke, breaking off into tendrils, sped towards them from the side, and another from below. There were too many demons, too few of them – if the angels stayed there to fight, they'd all be taken, and none of them could get to The Righteous Man. Castiel wondered how the other platoons were faring.

"We have to keep fighting our way in," Castiel called out. "Leave the demons!"

Castiel didn't expect any of the angels would listen to him, but after giving him a startled glance the others turned course and began to outrun the demons instead of fighting them.

"Rachel, Balthazar!" Castiel called. "We need to keep the platoon together, stay on mission. Tell the others."

And so they fled from the smoke chasing them, headed ever downward.

* * *

Cassie sits at one end of the couch, laptop on her thighs, dark curls falling forward as she chews her lower lip. She types out something, mutters a curse, hits a key emphatically – Dean assumes it's delete. Her glasses slide too far down her nose and she pushes them up impatiently.

He lowers the paper he's reading – he's keeping to the sports pages and hasn't looked at the obits for days – and nudges her ankle with his toe. "Can't be that bad."

"Oh yes," she says. "Yes it can. This is due in twelve hours and I have to get this part right, but the different accounts are contradictory and it's already a complicated situation." Her glare moves from the laptop screen to Dean's face, and softens. "Sounds a little like you, actually."

"Me?"

She tilts her head as if she's getting ready to sketch him. "Some things about you don't add up, but I don't know why yet." Cassie stretches out her leg and rests her foot on his thigh. "You're a mystery."

The windows are open to the darkness, crickets singing outside. Dean listens to them for a moment before he says, "Not much to me, I promise."

"Maybe you should let me decide that." Her lips curve in a smile before she goes back to typing. Then she frowns in a way that reminds Dean of Sam. "You ever question whether everything you've been taught is right? Whether you should just accept what happens to you? What is it you do, Dean – suck it up? Keep moving because if you stop it'll all crash down on you"

The skin of her ankle seems too hot through his jeans. "I – I don't –"

She moves her foot away. "Relax. I'm not going to pry." Cassie goes back to typing, while the crickets seem to grow louder in the quiet.

The tapping of her fingers on the keys and the sound of insects outside fit together, like a baseline and drums. They're soothing, almost the way the rumble of the Impala's engine is. He's fallen asleep to the tap-tap-tap of Cassie's typing, or woken up to it, any number of times in the past week as she works at all hours, and he's getting accustomed to the cadence of it.

Seems like the room's too stuffy all of a sudden. Dean twists around and reaches for the window behind the couch, pushing it up more, letting the night air creep farther into Cassie's living room. The branches of the trees outside move, shadows sliding over the sill and Dean automatically looks for things out of place, shapes that shouldn't be there, or eyes shining. There's nothing.

Cassie's touch on his arm makes him startle.

"What're you watching for out there in the dark?"

He shrugs, as if it's no big deal, as if there truly is no answer.

The room's still too hot, and for a moment he remembers the sound of someone screaming, has a weird idea it might've been him but he's not sure when he's ever screamed quite like that.

Cassie leans forward, tucking her hair behind her ear, staring at him hard. "Remember this – you don't have to accept it. Don't give in."

* * *

"Where do you go, when you do that?" Alastair leaned against a patch of broken brick on the cave wall. The rock shone with moisture that trickled from the ceiling, water so hot it steamed.

"Nowhere in particular." Dean shrugged. He was whole today. Alastair hadn't yet carved him into pieces or torn his skin into strips.

Alastair stayed where he was, leaning against the wall.

"What?" said Dean. "No masochism tango today?"

"Do you want me to?"

"That'd be a negative, Houston."

"Still with the wisecracks." Alastair pushed himself away from the wall and walked across the cellar-like room, weaving around the fires. "I'm impressed." He stopped and shoved his hands in his pockets. "I do wish you'd tell me what's in that pretty noggin of yours, Dean. Help me understand what makes you tick."

Alastair's voice was almost gentle. Dean swallowed a few times. "I'm not that complicated," Dean said. "Nothing much to tell you."

"Don't sell yourself short, kiddo. Oh, I'll bet the inner workings of that brain of yours is a messy, beautiful place. Metaphorically speaking, of course. I've seen your actual brains – and they are messy and beautiful, but also kind of gross." Alastair twitched his shoulders.

"Up yours," said Dean, unable to come up with anything more original at the moment.

Damn, he was tired, and it was a different kind of tired than he'd felt after Dad had died, the tired he'd felt with his deal hanging over his head like a piano about to fall. He had to work to make wisecracks now; entire movie scenes he'd once had memorized were gone, along with favorite family jokes and things like the old Burns and Allen routines he and Sammy used to listen to at Pastor Jim's.

 _First you forget names, then you forget faces. Next you forget to pull your zipper up and finally, you forget to pull it down…_

Alastair was singing, softly under his breath. "You go to my head/And you linger like a haunting refrain/And I find you spinning round in my brain/Like the bubbles in a glass of champagne."

Dean started to hum at him, then opened his mouth to sing something by Zeppelin or Creedence or Black Sabbath or even Bon Jovi if it came to that.

He couldn't remember any of the lyrics.

* * *

The air smelled of sulfur. "It stinks like the heart of a volcano down here," Uriel said.

Not just smelled of sulfur, it was full of it, touching Castiel's grace until his being seemed steeped in it. He ached for the open spaces of earth, for stars, for the peaceful places that made up Heaven. He hadn't been home for a very long time, and longing for it was unseemly. It was a dereliction of duty, in thought if not in action.

His injured wing hurt with each movement. Castiel ignored it. After the initial sharp pain subsided, he could fly, even if it took great effort and his movements seemed sluggish and clumsy. It hurt. Since they were hiding, using stealth, they had no need to fly at the moment, which was a small mercy.

They managed to lose the demons, hiding in the narrower and more remote corners of the giant cavern among crumbling rock stairways and rooms that seemed to have had a use once but were now empty. Long corridors lined with stone, dead ends, strange red light glimmering. Unholy symbols and markings crawled over the walls. The steady background noise of souls crying out never ceased, even here in these deserted rooms or maybe – Castiel thought – it was only the echoes of souls long ago tormented and turned.

Rachel kept a tight grip on her sword, resolute at Castiel's side. Uriel seemed the most at easy of any in the platoon, as if Hell contained no particular horrors for him. It was just another field of battle. He studied the rock formations and the labyrinthine spaces as if he was looking for the best spot to give it a good push to knock it all down.

"Typical of demons, that they would occupy a mess like this," Uriel said.

It was a great comfort having him there, as his mockery of the stench and the confusion of tunnels made it seem less formidable.

"Excuse me, but didn't the Almighty create Hell?" Balthazar said, no rebuke in his voice, only amusement and a trace of sarcasm – something Castiel associated strongly with humans.

Balthazar had shifted himself into a semblance of his chosen human vessel – a slim man whose accent and features suited Balthazar's usual habit of dry, inappropriate comments.

"He created it. The demons do what they like with it," Rachel pointed out. "This atrocity is not our Father's design."

"No, it's not," Castiel said. "Let's keep moving. If we stay still too long the demons will be able to track us more easily. Also, be careful communicating. Don't try to reach out to the other platoons – we don't want the demons to hear."

The band of angels listened to Castiel, perhaps because they were uncertain, caught in a place even more foreign than usual. He must be a convenient point to focus on. Any one of them would've done.

They couldn't hide out at the edges of Hell for long. The demons would find them eventually, and they needed to move back towards the center, to find the other platoons and make sure they were in place to guard Ramiel's squad as they escaped with The Righteous Man.

Wishing very much that they could receive revelation, Castiel continued to lead the group of angels deeper into Hell.

* * *

They're sitting on the hood of the Impala, out in Big Sky country somewhere, and Sam's long arm reaches up, fingers tracing a constellation.

"See, along there, that's the tail…"

Dean nods. "Yeah, I see it now."

They fall into silence again, slowly nursing their beers and listening to the wind race across the prairie in whistling gusts. It almost makes Dean dizzy, craning his head back like this to watch the stars, as if he can actually feel the earth turning. When he looks down at the horizon again, he thinks he can see the spin.

Neither of them speaks for a long while, as the night gets colder and the stars shift position. Sam itches at a band-aid on his finger.

This bone-deep feeling of peace has become alien to Dean. He doesn't want to break it but the ache in his chest is too much. He's brought the fear along with him, can't push it off any more.

"I'm really in trouble this time," Dean says, voice cutting the bubble of quiet. He doesn't like how his desperation resounds so clearly. He takes another swallow to cover. "I'm really in deep shit, and I think maybe I'm—"

Sam slides off the Impala, hands striking the hood. "No. No, I'm working on it. I'm close." He gestures, lifting his hands, agitated. "I'm doing things I never thought I could, and I'll be able to do something to save you, to get you back."

"Whatever you're doing, stop." Dean slides off the car after Sam, and they face each other with the prairie stretching away beyond them. "It'll change you."

"It won't. I won't let it."

"You won't be able to help it, Sam. You can't save me."

"Watch me."

"Maybe you gotta…"

"What, let you go? Forget it." Sam throws his half-finished bottle of beer, drops of liquid flying. It's too dark to see where the bottle falls, but Dean hears it thump to earth.

"Don't think there's a way out of this for me," Dean says.

"Shut up. Don't you do that. I know you. You think you deserved this, for some bizarre reason I'll never understand, but you don't."

"It's not that." Dean holds up his hands, placating to Sam's faster breathing rate and the way he can't seem to stay still now. This isn't a conversation he intended to have. Dean takes a step back, but Sam follows.

"Listen. Please, listen." Sam puts his hands on either side of Dean's head, gently, so gently. "Don't give up, all right? I tried to swap places with you, and they wouldn't let me. I'd be there with you if I could. Remember this – I'm with you. Even if I'm not there. I'm not giving up on you even if you are, but I don't believe you're truly giving up. You aren't _allowed_ to give up." Sam's voice has a shake in it. He releases Dean and goes back over to the Impala that looms bigger than the distant hills and leans against the hood. Dean hears him sniff hard.

After a minute Dean goes over to stand next to his brother. "I'm sorry."

Sam wipes his eyes with his thumbs. "Don't be sorry," he mutters. "Just listen to what I'm telling you."

* * *

Alastair brought a couple of Hellhounds into the room with him this time, and Dean flinched, started tugging hard against the restraints before he could catch himself. The beasts were ugly as fuck and looked as if they weren't truly small enough to fit in the space.

At Alastair's command, they sat and sniffed the air, burning eyes watching Dean.

"All you have to do is say _yes,_ Dean." Alastair trailed the knife long Dean's jaw. His other hand slid down over Dean's shoulder, along his arm, over his stomach. "Do you want off the rack?"

Dean didn't say anything, his mind reaching for the remnants of the dream, but it was already gone. He kept his eyes away from the hounds and tried to think of something smartass to say to Alastair. He couldn't speak. The panting of the Hellhounds echoed in the cave, their smell overwhelming.

"What did you dream about this time?" Alastair asked.

Dean pushed back the memory of his dream about Sam, as if thinking about it could put it within Alastair's reach, as if Alastair could take it.

Sam had seemed real enough but he remembered the dreams now more than he remembered specifics from their childhood. It was all there, only in smaller and smaller fragments. Things he knew were important, like when Sam had broken his arm but Dean couldn't recall how. Sam's face lit by a single candle stuck in a cupcake, in some run-down shack in the woods on his eleventh birthday. Dad and he and Sam somewhere having a meal, and Dad praising Dean for a kill Dean didn't remember doing – and Dean always remembered his kills, every creature or spirit's face.

Alastair leaned in, and began to cut.

* * *

A group of demons found them and attacked in their true form. Castiel wondered at their boldness – the demons' claws and teeth were sharp and quick, but if they hoped to do lasting damage to an angel, their smoke forms were the more powerful and insidious method.

He understood what they wanted when one of them slashed at his injured wing (and how had it known he was already weakened there?) and when Castiel was distracted, grabbed for his sword. Castiel struggled with the demon, trying to wrench himself free with his claws digging into his grace, sharp and hot.

Rachel was nearby, blocking the blow from a demon who had taken her weapon. She grabbed the demon's arm, bending it back with vicious force, forcing it to drop her sword. Angels all around them struggled against demons, the sulfur smell growing more intense.

It shot pain through his entire being, but Castiel beat his wings, taking to the air with the demon clinging to him. Castiel dropped suddenly, smacking the demon against a rock. The blow could only daze the creature, not severely harm it, here in its own domain, but it was enough to shake its grip loose. The demon shrieked at him as Castiel swooped upwards again, crying out as the pain ripped through him.

He felt as well as saw the flare of light when three of his siblings died, their grace burning too pale here in Hell, washed out.

They lacked power here.

Castiel felt something he hadn't known before – panic.

* * *

Dean's in that dive near the water, the one where Jo was working when that mess went down with Meg possessing Sam. The ringing of a buoy and the faint scent of wet timbers comes in through the open windows. Jo slides onto the stool next to his at the bar. She smells a little like the limes and lemons she was slicing and the familiar hint of gun oil. There's a scar on her arm Dean doesn't recall from the last time he saw her.

His elbow brushes her skin, and he pulls away an inch.

"Why do you do that?" she asks, eyebrows rising.

"Do what?"

"Act like you might accidentally _break_ me." She moves closer to him.

He doesn't pull away. "I…I don't."

"Yeah, you do." She tucks a strand of long blonde hair behind her ear, eyebrows rising with amusement. "I get it, okay? I'm the kid sister you never had. But I'm pretty tough." Jo gives him a direct stare, chin tilting upwards in that way she has. "You act like even if you're never going to make a move on me, you might do some damage by accident. Like when I was twelve, Mom never let me near our china plates because I tried to be careful but I always managed to drop something."

Dean's almost completely sure Jo's like a sister to him, except Jo always smells way too good for it to be only that. "You've got me all figured out, huh?" he says.

"I kind of think I do. Some parts. Other parts I have no idea." Her finger runs along the scar on her arm – it looks like an unconscious gesture she does frequently, a habit.

"How'd you get that?"

"Hydra. Near Lake Eerie. A small one." Her hand moves away from the scar.

"You kill it?"

"Damn straight," she says, without any smugness, only a firm satisfaction that she'd done her job.

"Atta girl." He grins.

"So," she says, brushing a few peanut shells off the wood.

"So…"

"You're just giving up?" There's a bitter edge in her voice.

"Don't exactly have many options, here, Jo."

"That doesn't matter. You keep on fighting. It's who you are."

"What do you care anyway? I thought you hated me. Maybe my whole cursed family."

"Boy, are you stupid." Jo props her elbow on the bar and leans her head on her palm, staring at him in a way that makes Dean think she'd like to break his nose and makes him uncomfortable in another way, thinking of things he shouldn't want.

"There's nothing more I can do," he says, tired in every limb, every muscle.

"Bull. Yeah, there is," Jo says, her voice gone harsh as dry sand. "You think so little of yourself? Like you might scar anyone you get near. You think Sam's the only one on earth who gives a crap what happens to you?" She clears her throat. "I should punch your lights out for making that deal."

"Probably."

"Remember this," Jo says, and her palm covers the back of his hand. Her fingers are calloused, like his. "Look at me," she says, her voice brittle. "You keep on fighting."

* * *

Alastair took Dean apart piece by piece, taking his time, blood splattering his shirt as Dean started to choke on his own blood.

"Say _yes_ and it stops," Alastair said.

Breathless from pain, vision going cloudy, Dean had to work to say it. "No."

"The key is to wear the subject down gradually. It takes patience. Pay attention, Dean," Alastair said dispassionately, like the teacher in one of Dean's more boring classes sophomore year of high school. "Do it slow, do it fast, mix it up so they don't know what you're going to do."

There was no point in screaming. No one was coming to get him.

* * *

They found another platoon of angels – or the remnants of one. There were only a handful of angels left, many of their number slain by their own blades or consumed by the black smoke.

Forfax, the leader of the other platoon, stepped forward to face Castiel. "Where is Tariel?"

"Lost," Castiel said, and a ripple of unease and alarm went through Forfax's angels.

"This is bad," said Forfax. "Ramiel wasn't at the meeting point. We believe he and his squad may be lost as well."

That was unexpected. Castiel had counted on following the original overall plan, even if his platoon had taken too many loses. This operation was starting to resemble some of the more chaotic and doomed human battles he'd witnessed. Perhaps it should never have been a battle at all. A covert mission instead, a few angels that wouldn't attract attention. Castiel's mind turned over the possibilities, which exits to use, how to cover escape if they were caught. He closed off the traitorous idea – his superiors knew best, were far more experienced. They knew best.

"This is madness," Nathaniel spoke up hesitantly. "We should abort the mission."

"No," Castiel said, and realized that they were all looking at him now, even Forfax. All of them were waiting on him, to tell them what to do. "Our orders are to save The Righteous Man. We'll find him, and a few will release him and take him out of Hell while the others cover the escape, just as originally planned."

Behind him he heard Balthazar snort, a most un-angelic sound. "Good luck with that," he said.

Castiel waited to say anything until they were continuing their journey, then pulled Balthazar off a little apart from the others.

Then Castiel turned swiftly to face him. "What's wrong with you?"

"Nothing." Balthazar said shortly.

"We're here on God's orders," Castiel said.

"Ah, yes. As presented by Zachariah."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"I'm not sure, mate. But I would like to emerge from this alive, wouldn't you?"

* * *

The interrogation room is ugly and small, off-white walls to match the ceiling that's a color that looks dirty even though the paint job seems fresh.

"Man, I thought I had you all figured out." Victor has his sleeves rolled up as he leans one hand against the table. He flips through the pages in a case folder with his other hand. "Had you profiled to the hilt. You know I devoted a wall in my apartment to your crazy family?"

Dean laughs. "Takes one to know one."

For a moment Dean thinks Victor's going to keep up this tough cop routine, but then he cracks a grin, dimples flashing. Jackass always seemed smug, too aware of his own charm. "Touché," says Victor. "But the truth was even more insane and beyond what I imagined, and I imagined quite a lot."

"I'll bet you did." Dean grins back, knowing it's both for show and because he feels like it. There's something likeable about Victor.

"Anyway, I admit I didn't get you as neatly as I thought." Victor lets go of the folder and walks around the table. "Still, I've got you figured out pretty good in some respects. Even better once I got my eyes opened about hunting and what your family does. You and I aren't that different beneath the surface."

"No, guess we aren't."

"You were an assignment." Victor folds his arms. "Supposed to stay in the boxes I'd created for you, and then you turned it all upside down, you and Sam and your demons."

"Not our demons," Dean says, tasting something bitter.

"Yeah, but you can't seem to escape them." He unfolds his arms and puts his hands flat on the table, leaning closer than Dean is comfortable with. "I would've thought you were stronger than this."

"I have no idea what you're talking about." Dean swallows.

"Bending over for them like that? Giving up? Letting that bastard Alastair play you like you're his prize Stradivarius?"

Dean's fingers clench around the edge of the table until his knuckles turn white. "You don't know anything about Alastair."

"I know psychopaths," Victor says. "I know how their minds work. Don't play his game."

"Not a problem," Dean says, with another grin.

Then Victor's grabbing him by his t-shirt, yanking him out of his chair. Dean stumbles and Victor shoves him against the wall.

"Yes it is," Victor says, giving him another push for emphasis. "He's gotten to you, playing every string. You slip away when you can but it's not enough. He's what you hunt. He knows what's inside you. Don't let him play you."

* * *

Alastair's hand was stained red, curled around Dean's neck as Dean tried to scream, gasping for air, choking on his own blood.

"C'mon, Dean," he said into Dean's ear. "I can not only make the pain stop, I can offer you something better. I can offer you the chance for payback. So tell me, kid, you want off the rack?" Alastair drew away and watched Dean as he struggled. "Just say yes."

* * *

There were demons above and below Castiel, and around him. Some in smoke form, some in solid form that tried to grab his sword and turn his own blade against him. He wrenched it free, slashing at the smoke that got too close, and flung off several true-form demons that were trying to pull him down.

All around him, the other angels fought off demons amid the steam that rose from pools of hot water, the ground the color of rust and rough and desiccated. Broken stone steps rose to nothing – as if there had been a structure there once but it was long gone.

After so long in Hell, they were no closer to finding The Righteous Man – the intelligence they had wasn't specific enough, and Hell was larger than Castiel had imagined, or been warned about. Since so few angels had ever been there, it was no wonder.

He cut off the thought as unworthy – their leaders weren't foolish.

Castiel took to the air, ignoring the pain in order to get an overview of the skirmish. He landed at the top of the broken stairway, wings spread wide. The souls chained there pleaded and begged for release. Some of them were bright, some dulled and nearly transformed. Castiel watched with regret, but had no time to ponder their situation. He spotted Rachel battling below him before six demons swarmed up the broken stairway towards him.

His wing ached but he had no choice. Castiel launched himself into the air again, away from his perch, smoke curling around his heels. He lost track of the platoon's location as everything became a dizzying rush of smoke and fire, broken stone and ragged cavern walls. He dove into an opening, finding himself in a tight stairwell that twisted downward into the orange glow of fire that broke the darkness.

The demons didn't slow in their pursuit. Castiel couldn't turn in such a small space as he was, so he shrank himself to something slimmer and more compact. Only after he was done with the transformation did he realize he'd chosen an imitation of the body of Jimmy Novak, as Castiel had first seen him, in jeans and soft, faded t-shirt and sneakers. Castiel reduced his wings, leaving them out as a show of force, although it would hurt less if he folded them.

In this form, Castiel used his smaller size to his advantage, dodging and darting around. He dispersed the smoke demons that got too near and headed down the steps on foot – it was easier to move now, but the space was too narrow for him to fly.

* * *

The sun gleams off the chrome of a '75 Cadillac Eldorado and a '71 Buick Skylark. The air tastes of dust, a little metallic.

"These are just about rotted away," Bobby says, leaning next to Dean against the sun-heated side of a tan Chrysler Imperial that still ran if it wasn't a cold day. "Have to use them for spare parts rather than try to sell 'em whole."

"Yeah, not much you can do once they've rusted through like that." Dean taps his fingers on the Chrysler, the metal hot to touch.

Bobby rubs his hand over his beard. "Depends," he says. "Sometimes it's only on the surface, and the core structure's still strong."

"And sometimes maybe it wasn't built to last," Dean says. "The good ones can stand up to the rain and wear and tear. The others rust and give out."

"You want to keep ducking the issue with car metaphors, or you want to talk about this?" Bobby says wryly. "You and your daddy and Sam – you aren't the rusting and giving out types. Dinged up a lot, is all."

Dean laughs. "Sounds like you're describing yourself."

"Well, I'm certainly dinged up." Bobby turns, and his fingers dig hard into Dean's shoulder. "You hearing me, Dean?"

"I hear you."

"Maybe, but that ain't the same as listening. Remember this." Bobby's grip tightens. "You remember this."

"I'm trying," Dean says. "I can't…I can't remember like I used to. It's slipping away. It's all slipping away." Dean presses his palms hard against the old Imperial. "I need to keep it, if I can keep it then maybe I won't – I gotta keep hold of all of it."

"Then you do it, son."

The junkyard starts fading until all that's left is the feel of Bobby's fingers, their strength as they dig into Dean's shoulder, and the touch of the car's metal. Then that's gone too.

* * *

"Say yes," Alastair coaxed softly. "You want the pain to stop? You want some payback, finally? Say yes."

Dean closed his eyes and turned his head away.

He saw Sam's face, but couldn't remember the license plate numbers of the Impala.

* * *

Castiel followed a long, arched corridor, its stones dripping with a thick substance that might've been blood. Screams and sobs echoed until it was impossible to tell where any particular cry originated, all of them blending together, rising and falling. Even to an angel's senses, the chorus was harsh, making Castiel long for silence. Thin, pale arms, only shreds of skin clinging to the bones, reached out to him as a soul strained forward, its body half-buried in the rock. Its mouth moved, forming words but it was difficult to tell what it was saying. There were more like that, up ahead, souls trapped in the walls. Castiel steeled himself, ignored the tugging at his grace, the wish to free them. It was impossible; they were countless.

He had to get back to the other angels quickly, to help them, and to redirect the battle. The best strategy might be for them to split up, to scatter into the tunnels, leaving the demons confused about how many of them there were, and where they were, while they continued to look for The Righteous Man. Then they could all return to a chosen meeting place – one of the lesser-known exits from Hell.

He heard the demons behind him and increased his speed. A figure appeared ahead of him, silhouetted against the glow of fire and Castiel tightened his grip on his blade, thinking it was a demon but as he drew closer he saw Balthazar, who vanished into a niche in the wall.

"What are you doing?" Castiel shouted ahead at him. They had no time to stop.

"Same thing you're doing, Castiel," Balthazar answered. "Trying not to get devoured or killed." He stepped out of the niche with a look of resignation.

"I have a plan," Castiel told him, as they both continued to run down the corridor.

"Oh, good. I'm glad someone does. Is it better than the old one? Because the old one is fucked beyond all measure."

Castiel stopped at that, causing Balthazar to crash into him. "Our superiors worked everything out carefully," he said.

"Oh yes, they did." Balthazar crowded Castiel closer to the wall, their wings almost getting tangled in the small space. Castiel couldn't help it, he winced at the pressure on his wing, and Balthazar immediately backed up. "Wonderful job at planning. So impressed."

"What has gotten into you?" Castiel demanded.

"You don't get it. You always were the wide-eyed believer, though. It's one of the things I like about you, actually, but at a certain point, my darling, you have to admit when you're screwed."

"We're not, as you say, 'screwed.' And when did you start talking like --"

"Oh, quit being such a snob."

Castiel heard the skittering of claws on the floor and barking. "We have to go, now." He yanked Balthazar along with him as he continued to run.

"Hell hounds, eh?" said Balthazar. "Of course. Should've known they'd sic them on us eventually. So once we do find this righteous man of yours, then what?"

"We free him and take him with us when we go find the others."

"And that's going to be easy, is it?"

The corridor twisted and then a flight of stained, dark steps appeared ahead of them, going upwards. Castiel folded down his wings because the ceiling was so low and to give himself a respite from the pain. At the top of the stairs was another corridor with an arched ceiling. Broken wooden doors, their edges jagged, lined it on either side, all lit with a yellow-orange glow, laced with shadows. The cries of the damned were incessant.

* * *

When Dean opens his eyes, his body is knit back together, and he's alone in the room. He's too tired to pull against the leather restraints, to try that trick any more, wriggling his wrists and ankles in the hope of working them free. He hasn't tried that for years.

The sun is the flames, and the sky is rough rock mixed with cement and brick.

"Dean." There's someone in the room, and for a moment Dean thinks it's Alastair, he's tall and bearded, but the voice is wrong. Dean knows that voice.

The figure steps forward. Dean's heart jumps. "Dad?"

John smiles sadly. "It's me."

"No, it's not, right?" Dean starts to struggle against the restraints, then. "You're not actually here. I mean – you crawled out of Hell, we saw your spirit go up."

"It's not really me. I'm not a trick sent by Alastair either. I think you get how this works by now."

"I get it." Dean blinks, feeling the sting of moisture at the corner of his eyes, even before John moves closer and takes Dean's face in his hands.

"I'm sorry. I'm so, so sorry."

"What good does that do me now, Dad?" Dean feels a twist of anger in his gut. "Plus, it was my screw up. I let Sam die, and I made the deal. I fucked up, everything you asked me to do, and this was the only way to fix it."

"It's done," his father says, voice rough with anger and Dean's throat tightens. "But now you've got to hold on. Don't let Alastair play you, and don't give in. You're stronger than this."

"Am I?" Dean says bitterly.

"Yeah, you are." And the look of fondness in his eyes is too much.

"Well, that's fine and good, but it doesn't change what's going on here. I can't remember stuff any more, Dad. Can't remember why you bought Sam a dreamcatcher when he was twelve or why Sam hates yellow M&M's or what Mom's pie tasted like or how many miles were on the car. I can't even remember the freakin' lyrics to Stairway to Heaven." His father's fingers are hot against his face and Dean turns his head so he'll let go. John does, slowly. "So unless you have a way to get me out of here, you can shove your pep talk." Dean's breath catches at the hurt in John's face. "No one's getting me out of here. I tried escaping and saving myself, over and over. It didn't work. They dragged me back every fucking time. No one's coming, Dad, and I knew what I was doing when I made that deal. I don't regret it."

"I don't regret mine either," John says. "Remember that, all right? Remember this. You are stronger than this."

"No, I'm not."

"Shut up and you listen. You're going to let that demon slime break you? How would Sam feel about that? Your mother? I taught you to be stronger than that."

"And I'm telling you, Dad, there's nothing left, here. What am I supposed to do? Huh? Look at me!" He jerks his wrists hard against the restraints. "They've taken me apart for thirty years, ripped out my innards and torn off my skin and forced my own flesh down my throat, and every day Alastair says it can stop if I agree to get off this rack and torture other souls. Every day I'm put back together, and the whole thing starts all over again."

"Don't give in," John says, and there's only anger in his voice, and despair.

"Give me a reason not to," Dean says. "Sam is safe topside. That's what matters. I'm never getting out of here. I'll hold out as long as I can, but I don't know. I just don't know how long I can –"

"You really think Sam's the only thing that matters in this?"

"Don't." Dean bites the inside of his cheek hard. "Just don't. I told you I have no regrets. But it's over."

"Then you're not the man I thought you were," John says, and the sadness that shows in the lines of his body, in his eyes, is the worst thing Dean's seen since he got down here. "I'm disappointed in you."

* * *

Alastair withdrew the knife, blade dripping with blood.

"Do you want off the rack?" He asked, voice silken.

Dean's voice was barely even a whisper-scratch, throat raw from screaming. "Yes."

* * *

Ten years later Dean was slicing open the intestines of a child molester from Cincinnati when a shadow appeared in the doorway.

Dean glanced up from his work. The man looked unassuming: small and slender, wearing jeans and a faded t-shirt, short, messy dark hair. Not bad-looking. He seemed ordinary except for the shadowy wings that spread up from his shoulders. There was a thin sword in his hand, and a hard, determined expression on his face.

It wasn't an escaped soul, and it didn't look like a demon. He definitely wasn't human. Either way it hardly mattered, all that mattered was how loud he'd scream when Dean had him strapped down on the rack and started cutting him open.

"You want something?" Dean snapped, the molester's blood tickling his arm, dripping a line to his elbow. "I'm a little busy here."

* * *

The hounds were getting closer when Castiel looked through the opening in a broken wooden door and recognized the soul of The Righteous Man.

"Are you insane?" Balthazar said, gripping Castiel's human-shaped arm with his human-shaped fingers as Castiel turned to go into the chamber.

Castiel couldn't help but stare at Balthazar's fingers against his own flesh – even if it was only an illusion, it felt real, and very strange, to be wearing a human shape. Fingernails and skin and veins and imperfections on Balthazar's hand, the hairs on the back of his own arm, held him transfixed for precious seconds before he drew his mind back where it needed to be.

"It's _him_ ," Castiel said. "We have to save him. It's our mission. God ordered it."

The baying of the hounds grew louder. Balthazar cursed. "Go get him." He sighed and held up his sword. "I'll lead them off."

"But…" Castiel didn't move.

"Oh, please. If you could see your face right now. Not a bad face, by the way. I won't let them touch me, just get them to chase me. Hurry up and go rescue your Righteous Man."

Castiel started to protest, but Balthazar bellowed at him, "Go!"

Then Balthazar ran back the way they'd come, calling in a taunting way to the hounds. The sound of the baying changed direction, moving away from Castiel.

There was no time to plan now, or to find the scattered angel platoons and have them cover The Righteous Man's escape. Balthazar was probably right. He was "screwed." Doubt began to whisper at the back of his mind, that their leaders were not as wise as they seemed, that they'd been over-confident. Not that they didn't want the man saved. That was of utmost importance. But perhaps there was another way it could've been done, without the loss of so many angels. Castiel thought of the many portals to Hell, the time he and Anael had spent arguing strategy and when direct attack was best and when to use a covert mission with only a few angels. Suddenly he missed her terribly.

The Righteous Man, Dean Winchester, looked up from cutting into an imprisoned soul as Castiel walked into the room. A hard, blank, calculating gaze tracked Castiel up and down – Dean's mouth twitched in a dismissive sneer as if he found what he saw unimpressive. A sense of wrongness stung through Castiel, unexpected and jarring – this man shouldn't be there, desperate and with eyes hardened, hands bloodied. At least he shouldn't be left abandoned there, unaided.

His soul was too bright given the amount of time he'd been in Hell. Castiel felt a strange tug in his human chest.

"You want something?" Dean said, voice flat and impatient. Blood covered his arms up to his elbows, and he held a thin curved knife in one hand. "I'm a little busy here."

"My name is Castiel. I'm an angel of the Lord, and I'm here to take you out of Hell."

Dean barked out a laugh. "An angel. Seriously? That's a good one." He turned back to the soul writhing on the rack, and grinned, feral and sharp as he cut down the middle of the man's chest, blood spilling out as the man screamed.

"Yes. I am completely serious," Castiel said.

The Righteous Man glanced up again, and his gaze swept over Castiel once more. Castiel wasn't sure why that should make him feel so uncomfortable – pinned in place and exposed in a way he couldn't describe. The man's expression now was nothing like how his eyes had looked in the image, except for their color, and yet looking back at him, Castiel found no surprises – the features were now familiar. It was almost a relief to see them, the manifestation of their goal after so long a battle.

Tilting his head to the side in a way that unpleasantly reminded Castiel of a demon in its true solid form, Dean licked the blood from the blade of the knife.

"Aren't you the hero," Dean said, lowering the blade. "All square-jawed and earnest."

Then Castiel saw it, behind the hardness in the man's eyes, a blink that released the hurt and the plea and the hope that was there only for the length of a breath and then gone.

"It's time to go, Dean," Castiel said. "This place isn't for you."

"It isn't? Could've fooled me," Dean said calmly as he went back to his work.

Castiel was not used to humans, or their souls, acting so indifferently to his presence. He widened the span of his wings, bracing himself for the slice of pain that ricocheted through him.

"Is that supposed to scare me?" Dean said. "Make me fall to my knees?"

"This isn't you," Castiel said, stepping closer.

"Shut up." Dean's voice was terse, his attention on slicing into the tormented soul's skin. "You don't know anything about me."

"I know more than you think."

"Prove it."

Castiel watched him a moment, the assured, almost graceful movements as he did his grim work, the fine hesitation and stiffness that undermined the terrible grace.

"You remember who you were." He watched the man's face. Dean was still going at his work, mouth in an impassive, firm line as he twisted the blade, making the soul cry out. Then there was a flicker, a twitch in the muscle of Dean's jaw, a shift in his gaze and again, what was invisible become sharp and clear. "The faces of your brother, your mother, your father, the one who are like family to you," Castiel said. "The ones that you're afraid to love. You've held onto them."

"I said shut up," Dean said, jaw clenching as he stopped cutting the soul and turned towards Castiel, knife blood-wet and dripping.

"You're enjoying this and despising yourself for it, and your own skin – so to speak – has become anathema because part of you can't believe you're here," Castiel continued. The clarity wavered. Humans were sometimes easy to read if their body language or tone was telling enough; at times, without their awareness, Castiel was able to see beyond the surface for brief moments, the way pebbles beneath the surface of a stream might be visible a moment before the ripples hid them again.

Here in Hell, with Dean in his soul form, Castiel found he could more easily catch glimpses beyond the surface. A soul in human shape was a thin casing, far more fluid than a flesh and blood body. "You don't want to be here." Castiel saw Dean blink – it was almost a flinch. He stepped closer, that blink deepening the reach of Castiel's vision. "The smell of sulfur makes you sick, your skin itches with it. You've forgotten how bright sunlight is but you know it isn't what you have now."

"I said shut _up!_ " Dean shouted.

Castiel noted the shake beneath the harsh tones.

"You have a purpose greater than this, Dean. We don't have much time. We have to go."

"Fuck you," Dean said, and deftly twisted the knife in his fingers. "You got everything wrong."

He was lying. Castiel caught that before something shut down in Dean's face and Castiel couldn't follow the lines of emotion inward any longer. He caught it as a faint glimmer and that was all. But he could see other things.

"Your soul is too bright," Castiel said. "By now it should've faded in intensity, but it hasn't."

"I said, shut your cakehole," Dean snarled, and leapt at Castiel, slashing with the knife.

If Castiel's wing hadn't hurt, dodging that would've been no more effort than crooking a finger, but his wing still troubled him, and he was distracted. The blade cut through his shirt and drew blood before Castiel darted back. The cut didn't hurt, not the way it would if he'd been in a vessel on earth. The blade stung a little; it was a knife forged in Hell, but it wasn't a Heaven-forged weapon.

Castiel glanced down curiously at the blood staining his copy of Jimmy Novak's t-shirt. He'd never bled before, although he'd watched humans bleed enough over the centuries. He put his finger to the wound, touching the sticky wetness.

But Dean was rushing at him again. Castiel leapt back, using his wings to help propel him out of the way, and then launched himself at Dean, grabbing his wrist and squeezing until Dean cried out in pain and dropped the knife.

"You don't actually want to be here," Castiel said, pushing Dean against the wall and lifting him up to hold him in place while Dean squirmed and grunted angrily. "God himself gave the order for you to be saved. Why would you want to remain so far from His light? I don't understand why you won't come with me willingly. "

Dean spat in his face.

"I don't like when others take what's mine," a voice said behind Castiel.

Castiel had been stupid, distracted and not paying attention to his surroundings. He turned and saw a tall, bony, bearded man dressed in jeans and a dark long-sleeved shirt. A hellhound crouched at either side of him.

"You're trying to steal my star pupil, angel." The demon rested a hand on each of the hounds' heads. Its smile was predatory. "You want him, you have to go through me."

* * *

The hope that tugged inside of Dean was nothing he should be paying attention to, and he didn't need it. _Castiel_ \-- it was like he'd never not have that name in his head again, whether he wanted it or not. It wasn't exactly an ordinary name.

There was no such thing as angels, wings or no wings, whatever the dark-haired man claimed. Dean had no idea what he was, and he wasn't going with him.

Dean had the grim satisfaction of his work, and he was good at it. _A true artist_ , Alastair kept saying. His promises were real. The souls Dean cut into weren't the same kind of things as what he used to hunt but close enough. (He knew he'd hunted once, and the kills were expedient, that much he remembered, and there had been his brother with his hair falling into his eyes, and wide grin, and a smart remark. Fragments, not as real as the feel of the knife in his hand.)

Dean had no idea if it was relief or disappointment that filled him when Alastair arrived with his hounds. He hadn't felt very much for a long time. It was better that way.

Castiel released Dean. Simply let go, and Dean slid down along the wall, landing hard on his hands and knees. Castiel turned to face Alastair with his sword raised.

"You're going to use your dogs instead of fighting me yourself?" said Castiel, with cool disgust, and Dean had to admit, the guy had attitude.

"I'd like this over with," said Alastair. "I have havoc to wreak, souls to torture." He shrugged and spoke a sharp command.

The hounds snarled and leapt. Castiel darted away, bird-like, and the dogs scrambled to follow him as he moved swiftly around the room, half-flying. They almost knocked over the rack where the molester lay, sobbing and moaning, his blood dripping onto the floor. During the chase they went right through the fire, and the flames didn't seem to be an issue for the hounds or for Castiel.

Then Castiel feinted right, ducked left, and drove his sword right into the mouth of the nearest hellhound. The beast let out a high-pitched whimper of pain, almost a shriek, as black blood splattered from his mouth, onto Castiel shirt. A second later he wrenched the sword out and without turning around to look, rammed the blade behind him. It went in between the other hellhound's eyes. The beast snarled and shrieked, writhing, and Castiel pulled the blade out.

He was barely breathing hard as he stood with his back stiff, covered in streaks of black blood.

Dean couldn't help feeling impressed, and wondered how hard it would be to break him, what his limits would be under the knife.

Alastair sighed. "Do we have to?" His human shape rippled and turned into his true form, claws extending.

Castiel leapt at him.

"No!" Dean said, and managed to grab Castiel's ankle, pulling him down so he crashed to the floor. Castiel gave a sharp cry of pain, cut off quickly -- Dean noted how he favored his shoulder.

He gave Dean a look of annoyance and some bewilderment while Dean grabbed up the knife. Alastair drew back with a pleased expression on his true face. It was another lesson, another chance for Dean to prove himself. Dean felt a flash of pride.

Castiel scrambled out of reach as Dean lunged at him. One of Castiel's wings twitched forward and struck Dean's body. The wing was muscular, but with a give in it, soft but with a firm structure beneath. Dean hit the wall again, hard enough this time that it jarred him from his teeth down through his knees. He kept his grip on the knife, but had to stop and put the palm of his other hand against the wall to keep from falling.

"You fight me, Alastair. Stop using him as a shield," Castiel said. "You're a coward."

"If that's how you want it," Alastair said and jumped at Castiel, tail snapping. The flames in the room surged upward as if at Alastair's unspoken command, while Castiel's dark wings expanded, and a white light flared up, mingling with the fire. It might've been the fire glinting off of Castiel's sword but it wasn't -- too bright for that, and it didn't come from the sword.

The angel and the demon fought, a tangle of claws and teeth and wings and sword and tail until Dean had trouble differentiating between them, the glimpses of Alastair's strange body and Castiel's human-like one. Dean gripped the knife tighter, looking for an opening so he could strike at Castiel, but there wasn't a moment where they were still enough to give Dean a sense of where he should stab, and they moved fast.

Eventually he managed to track the pattern of the fight and saw that Castiel was on the defense, struggling to drive Alastair back and get in a blow with his sword, but wound up fighting him off instead. A glimmer of satisfaction rippled through Dean before a tightness in his chest, a bitterness, followed. As Alastair wrapped his claws around Castiel's wrist, turning the blade of Castiel's sword towards his body, the tightness in Dean's chest intensified.

Crouched and readied to spring, Dean envisioned driving the blade of his knife into Alastair's body.

Castiel lowered his head, shoved forward, and wrenched his sword free. It happened very quickly – he reached Dean in one leap, and grabbed his shoulder. He'd been gentle earlier, Dean now realized, because his grip was unbearably tight this time, and brought a flare of heat and white light that burned into his shoulder. Castiel's mouth was a determined, flat line, his blue eyes harsher than a frozen lake in winter. Dean heard the beat of wings, and then they were in the air, over Alastair's head as the demon's jaws snapped after them, sinuous body turning.

Struggling, Dean found himself held close against Castiel's slender body, the strength in Castiel's arms not at all matching his unassuming form, before they crashed together through the wooden door with its jagged edges and scratches of long agonized use.

The pain in Dean's shoulder increased and he cried out, but Castiel's grip remained constant. He seemingly didn't hear Dean as he lifted him and dragged him along the corridor. Dragged was the wrong word for it; they were moving much too fast for that, the openings in the rock on either side a blur and Dean's feet barely brushing the ground. He tried to strike Castiel with the knife, to kick him, or hit him, but couldn't get enough leverage.

Dean began to curse, a tumble of words, some he hadn't used in years, words he had forgotten. After the fear, unfamiliar after so long, the rage was even more startling, racing through his veins, blood rushing in his ears.

A few more turns, and they followed a twisting stairway downwards. If Alastair had been following, he was well behind them. Screams reverberated, sobs and cursing and wails from the souls in the chambers they hurried past. Dean had stopped noticing the stink of sulfur a long time ago, but it struck him as new all at once, stinging his throat.

"Stop, fuck, I said stop it, you fucking _bastard_. Stop. Why me and not them? Why not any of them?"

Castiel abruptly halted his rush and let go. The intense pain went out of Dean's shoulder, leaving a steady, dull throb. A thin trail of smoke rose from the cotton of Dean's shirt where Castiel had gripped him. Dean staggered back, his knees almost giving way. He still had the knife in his hand.

"Why me?" He asked again. The taste of sulfur was bitter on his tongue. He put his palm protectively over his shoulder, but the contact hurt, and Dean hissed between his teeth. He lowered his hand and gestured down the narrow corridor. "Take some of them out of here. Not all of them are serial killers or child molesters, y'know. People do all kinds of stupid, small shit to wind up here."

"I can't do that," Castiel said. In the firelight, the hellhound blood that stained his shirt and jeans in long streaks varied from utter black to a red darker than blood. It was in his hair, and a streak of it on the side of his face gave him a frightening appearance. "You have to come with me."

"What if I don't want to?"

Castiel tilted his head to the side, an alien-looking movement. "Why wouldn't you?" He said softly. "Do you truly wish to stay in Hell that much?"

Dean almost said _yes_ , but the word caught. Seconds went by and Dean couldn't remember whether he'd meant to say, _yes_ or _no_. After being taken apart over and over, the things he'd seen, Alastair's voice in his ear, the taste of his own blood on his tongue, the relief of delivering pain instead of receiving it, the routine and painlessness of the days had provided a kind of peace, an end to struggle.

Near them was an open door, the inside of it covered with scratch marks, as if many fingers had gouged at it. There was no one within the cave room beyond it, no fires burning. Dean spied a wooden platform similar to the one that had held him for decades, the leather straps trailing empty. He shuddered, seeing himself strapped down, scratching lines on the wood to measure the passage of days until he'd lost track.

When Castiel spoke, it was as if he'd been yanked from cold water. Dean had forgotten he was there – the one thing that existed was that empty room.

"We have to keep moving," Castiel told him, voice grim. "Alastair will be on our trail, and he is very angry right now." He started walking along the tunnel. When Dean didn't move, he stopped and turned back with an angry stare. "Are you with me?"

Dean lowered the knife, holding it loose in his grip, and after a moment Castiel started to move briskly down the corridor, holding his sword at the ready.

After a moment, Dean followed.

* * *

Every turn, every stairway Castiel chose to take, was to bring them up and out of the maze of caves and tunnels. He turned over plans and strategies, yet found it difficult to focus with the sound of Dean's footsteps behind him, the weight of knowing he was in Castiel's guardianship now, that it was Castiel's job to deliver him out of Hell, no matter the cost.

 _Father, please guide me_ , Castiel prayed. _I've done what you asked. Help me find the next step._

He should find other angels, rally as many as he could, gather them to him, to cover the Righteous Man's escape. If there were any angels left. He hoped Balthazar and Rachel and Uriel and the others were fighting on somewhere nearby.

The howling of the hounds sounded distantly behind them, echoing through the twisting stairway cut into the rock. It was impossible to tell if the noise came from below or above them, how far away they were. Behind him he heard Dean suck in a sharp breath. Castiel looked back at him over his shoulder, caught his gaze, nodded in what he hoped was an encouraging way. Dean's jaw went tight and he walked faster. There was something a little frightening about him, unapproachable, and yet, Castiel thought, he needed looking after, needed sheltering. It was astonishing that he hadn't turned part demon already. The length of time it took for the turning of a human soul depended on the soul, but by all accounts, most souls would've already been twisted after so long.

Castiel wondered that they had encountered no demons, that no one had challenged them, although evidently Alastair had sent more hounds after them.

A change in the light and a shift in the thickness of sulfur let Castiel know they were headed in the right direction. He led Dean up a spindly metal stairway, rusted and creaking beneath their weight. Light paler than fire glimmered down from above – it wasn't daylight. There was no daylight in Hell, but the pale and half-hearted light of one of the higher grand caverns, illuminated by a source Castiel couldn't identify. It was brighter than the tunnels.

A thin crack in the wall at the top of the stairs offered an exit. Castiel slipped through, holding his sword out first, then turned back for Dean, who gingerly shoved through the opening, flinching as his shoulder brushed the wall. The cloth of his shirt was singed to black there, and Castiel quickly glanced away. He hadn't meant to grip him quite so hard, to lose control of his grace to that degree but the heat of the battle with Alastair, the urgent need of escape, had made him sloppy.

He pushed down the uncertainty and doubt that perhaps he'd done everything wrong, chosen the wrong plan, the wrong direction of escape, that he'd led his whole platoon to death after the loss of their original leader. His Father was counting on him – surely his vision of the greater good would prevail.

As they emerged into the cavern, Dean squinted and turned his head away. He shrank back towards the opening.

"Dean," Castiel said, not unkindly. "We must keep moving."

Dean swallowed, nodded, and straightened his back. Castiel saw his grip tighten around the knife's handle. His hand trembled slightly.

He could, of course, simply carry him. Grab Dean and carry him to wherever Castiel thought they needed to go until he found one of the exits, but he was afraid to touch. Dean might fight against him again, and leave Castiel no choice but to overcome him, to hold him as a prisoner. The idea was distasteful, and the sight of that singed cloth made Castiel uneasy in a way that was unfamiliar.

Thinking of the images he'd seen unfold at the mission briefing, he thought perhaps Dean would rather walk than be carried anyway.

The rocky ground grew damp, and then they found themselves walking past rivulets of foul-smelling, cloudy water, while pale rock formations rose around them, skeletal and thin, like trees seared bare by winter.

The water gave way to higher, drier rock, still covered with the spiky formations. Castiel looked down and saw a fibula and a broken skull beneath his shoes. Dean was barefoot and walked on the bones with his mouth twisted with distaste, yet showed little fear of these semblances of human remains. Remembering what this man's job had been, Castiel thought perhaps he was simply used to death. There was a harshness and flatness to his gaze that didn't fit with the images Castiel had seen, or with the breaks in his façade Castiel had noticed during their escape so far. Dean's face was a blank, as crafted as any sculpture – Castiel found himself looking over his shoulder frequently in order to stare, to watch for changes in Dean's expression.

"What're you lookin' at?" Dean snapped.

Castiel returned his gaze to the horizon, where cascading shades of red burned beyond the spindly arms of the rock formations. The giant cavern curved up into nothingness, too high for him to see the top.

He glanced down, noticing for the first time the black blood that covered his human form. It stank worse than sulfur – it tainted him. With a thought, Castiel made the stains shimmer and vanish, melting from his clothes, his hair, his face. It gave him at least the momentary satisfaction of having been cleansed.

He saw Dean's eyes widen.

"Are you really a…never mind," said Dean, and he shivered. Castiel watched him deliberately stop it, muscles going tense, but he spotted the tremble held tightly in check beneath.

They marched on, farther from the caverns, across flat land covered with broken white stones. The spindly rock formations gave way to broader, larger ones that loomed towards the dark half-light of the sky. Some seemed to resemble grimacing faces, or mouths open in a scream. Here and there small pools of water glimmered, steaming with heat.

The sound of ragged breathing grew loud behind him. Castiel stopped and spun, sword raised, but saw only Dean. He'd stopped, bracing himself with his hand against the base of a pale, chalky, massive lump of rock. Dean swallowed, over and over, licked his lips and knelt. With the change of the angle of dim light on Dean's face, Castiel noticed the man's freckles, standing out against skin gone far too pale.

"Can't –" Dean said, the breath wheezing from his throat. He lowered his head, back of his neck exposed and vulnerable, the cord of the amulet he wore a line against the sweat-dampened skin. "Shit. Shit, just give me a --" he whispered. His fingers, stained white from the rock dust over the bloodstains, convulsed against the rock.

"What's wrong with you?" Castiel crouched near him, not sure what to do. He had the thought to reach out and touch Dean's shoulder, but hesitated to make the gesture. It seemed a strange thing for an angel to do.

Turning, Dean leaned against the rock and sank down. "Back there. When you found me. I was torturing people." He glanced down at the dried blood that streaked his lower arms and his wrists, flaked against his skin. His fingers were tight around the handle of the knife – Castiel wondered what would happen should he try to take it from him.

This was a man used to holding weapons, Castiel knew, comfortable with them, having them serve as an extension of his own body. Yet the demon-forged knife didn't fit with him, and he held it as if he, too, found it foreign in his grip.

"So many souls," Dean said. He shuddered like he'd tasted something bitter. "I tried not to. No matter what he did, I tried not to. But then I did." He looked down at his hands again. "The blood'll never come out," he muttered. Dean crawled towards one of the pools.

"Stop," Castiel ordered, realizing what Dean was about to do.

Dean hesitated, crouched at the edge of the pool, met Castiel's gaze, his expression gone even flatter and blanker, yet with every hurt pushing upwards from beneath the surface, the boundaries that held them back cracking. He kept lowering his hands and the knife towards the water. Castiel hurried over and knelt, closing his fingers around Dean's wrists, pulling his hands away from the pool.

"The water will burn you," Castiel said. He thought Dean might resist him; the man's muscles went taut beneath his touch.

Then Castiel let go and instead quickly put his fingers to the hard knob of Dean's wrist bone on each hand. The blood shimmered and vanished. It was only a small thing, but it seemed necessary.

Still gripping the knife, which was now gleaming and clean, Dean turned his hands over. He shuddered again, and then the line of his shoulders and tension in his arms relaxed.

"What Sam would think of me now," Dean said, voice small and rough. His expression had lost its blankness, leaving a combination of things Castiel didn't quite understand – he seemed disgusted with himself and yet his tone was loving at the same time.

"Your brother," Castiel said. "The one you sold your soul to Hell to save." He knew little of Sam – only what Zachariah had told them -- that he was dangerous, too prone to the temptations of his tainted blood. He also knew about Dean's devotion to his younger brother. Castiel felt a sting of sympathy – the wish to avoid disappointing a sibling, to earn and keep their respect, was something he knew about very well.

"Yeah," Dean said. "Oh boy was he pissed at me." He pushed himself to his feet. "Okay, okay, I'm good now. Dunno what just happened there with me, it was..." Dean gave a small, bitter laugh. "Was better off before you showed up, angel boy."

Strange, the disappointment that made his steps go a shade slower, thinking that Dean might not be glad to have him there.

* * *

Dean's chest was still too tight, even though he'd stopped hyperventilating. Memories, sharp vivid color, scent, and sound, shook loose in his brain. He'd hyperventilated a few times in his life, as a kid, a teenager, and an adult. Those attacks always left him shamed after. The bland disinfectant smells of a hospital came back to him; he was eighteen and Dad had almost died, but then the doc had come out of the ER to tell Dean and Sam that John would be okay. Dean had already been awake for two days straight and focused on keeping Sam from unraveling. As soon as they'd gotten good news, Dean hadn't been able to breathe, the lights seeming too bright. He remembered Sam telling him to put his head down between his knees, yelling for a nurse.

He looked at the back of the man he followed, the dark wings, the movement of wiry muscle beneath Castiel's t-shirt, the sword held comfortably in his grip like an extension of his body. Resentment flickered through him, at the way memories kept rising, at how much it hadn't hurt before, when all he had was a dull pride in his skill as a torturer, Alastair's praise giving him a simple purpose, no complications. He wanted to run forward and shove Castiel, wanted to knock him down, to punch and kick and yell.

Yet Dean continued to follow him, and every time he turned away to look at what they were walking through, relief washed through him when he turned back and found Castiel still ahead of him.

There was no room for hope. It was stupid, ridiculous, and no way was this guy, whatever he was, going to be able to fight off Alastair and his hounds, or the other demons that might come after them.

Dean wasn't sure if he wanted Castiel to win that fight, because it would be so much easier to go back, to not have this constant ache in his chest, to stop the emergence of memories, keep them buried, muddy and hidden, at the back of his brain.

He had no idea how long they walked – he felt no sense of tiredness, and there was no way to mark the time. They seemed to be headed always upward, given the slope of the ground. A cluster of rocks rose to Dean's left, a mix of yellow fading to rust-colored red, worn smooth in some places, broken in others, curved in a way that made Dean think of a jawbone.

The air still smelled of sulfur, and was hot against his skin, but Dean realized what was missing, why it seemed as if there was a strange pressure against his ears: it was quiet. It was so quiet – he couldn't hear screams, only the sound of his own heartbeat, his own breaths. He wasn't sure how long things had been like that.

"And it's whispered that soon/If we all call the tune/Then the piper will lead us to reason…" Dean sang softly.

The words were there and out of his mouth before he realized he knew them after all.

"What is that?" Castiel asked.

"Just some old song," said Dean.

"You have a nice voice," said Castiel, turning to look back over his shoulder.

"So, Virgil, where're we headed?"

Castiel looked straight ahead again, head held stiffly, as if he were offended. "My name isn't Virgil."

"Yeah, I know…never mind. Where're we going?"

"I'm taking us to an exit from Hell that not many know about."

"Kind of strange no one's coming after us, don't you think?" Surely, Dean thought, with a weird twist in his gut that was almost disappointment, he mattered more than that to Alastair.

"I had noted the same thing," Castiel said. "Regardless of the reason, it's God orders to get you out of Hell, and that's what I'm going to do. I was hoping to meet up with my brethren but there seems to be no sign of them." He went quiet for a few moments. "They couldn't find you, because of course, you're here with me, and we were somewhat unprepared for what we found here, overwhelmed. So perhaps they've left, and escaped Hell safely. I pray that they have." Another pause. "They've probably marked me as among the fallen."

There was a hint of regret, maybe sadness, in his voice – Dean thought even just a touch of self-pity.

"Don't know why you're bothering," Dean said. "Why don't you escape yourself? Go rejoin your brethren." Annoyance flared through him again. He walked faster, catching up to Castiel, grabbed his shoulder, careful not to touch the wings, and turned him. "Seriously, what are you doing here?"

"I'm just doing the best I can to save you," Castiel said, voice tight.

His glance slid down to Dean's fingers gripping his shoulder, then snapped back to Dean's face, and Dean pulled his hand away fast under the anger in that glare. The burn on his shoulder throbbed.

"What if…" Dean wanted to keep on walking, turn away from Castiel's stare but the words wanted to get out anyway. "What if I'm imagining you?"

He'd slid in and out of dreams for such a long time. They'd only stopped once he'd said yes to Alastair, and at first Dean had ached for their return – but only for a short while. Looking at Castiel's frowning face, another flash of anger went through Dean, at this…being, whatever…who'd kicked it all over against Dean's will, made him hurt again, led him to remember.

 _He and Sammy, when Sam was ten, their bare feet pounding on the boards of a dock and then they both jumped, into the hot summer day, hitting the cold lake at the same time. They broke the surface, and Sam spit water in an arc at Dean._

"Keep thinkin' here, what if I wake up and maybe I never tortured anyone. Maybe I'll wake up and you won't be here. I'm still strapped down on that board and Alastair will be grinning at me and holding up yet another kind of blade, trying to figure out how to take me apart in a way he hasn't tried yet."

Dean's mouth was dry – he craved water, not the brackish, smelly stuff here in Hell, but clear, cold water from topside.

The expression on Castiel's face changed, and Dean hardly knew how to read it – surprise, disgust almost, except not. It was something hurt and sickened. Fuck, Dean realized, Castiel was _pitying_ him. His fingers tightened around the knife.

"You'd rather have no hope of freedom, and still be a prisoner, than know that you tormented those souls," Castiel said.

"Damn straight," Dean muttered.

Castiel tilted his head, gaze still fixed on Dean and cripes, those stares were unsettling. They made Dean's skin itch, a hum that wasn't completely uncomfortable, exactly, but not easy either. A spark of realization showed in Castiel's blue eyes before Dean shoved past him.

"Thought you said we had to keep on the move," Dean snapped.

He led, and Castiel followed, until Dean realized he had no idea where they should be going. He slowed his pace as Castiel fell into step with him.

They kept on walking, side by side now.

* * *

With Dean walking alongside him, some of the unease Castiel felt at being separated from the other angels for so long abated. Yet Castiel tightened his grip on his sword. Should Alastair come to try to drag Dean back, Castiel would unleash the full force of what power he had in Hell. It was following God's purpose, of course, to save this man, but after the recent revelations about Dean, it was startling to Castiel how particularly the idea of Dean returning to be tortured or turned again sent a blaze of anger through him. He pushed down the emotion, contained it. He was a warrior of God – his job was to fulfill God's mission, nothing more. His wishes were to do what his Heavenly Father ordered.

It was some time before Castiel sensed the hounds, a scent and feeling on the foul hot air, before he heard their baying. As the sound grew louder, Dean's head went up, shoulders stiffening, body becoming taut as a stretched wire again, putting Castiel in mind of a large predator and its prey all at once.

"So even if you are a figment of my imagination, got any ideas, genius?" Dean snapped.

"Yes," said Castiel. "Run."

They took off, Dean moving almost hesitantly at first, falling behind Castiel, who slowed for him, but as the noise of the hounds got closer, Dean put on an extra burst of energy and speed. A wide field of rust-colored rocks appeared ahead of them. Their color had been visible from a long way off, but Castiel wondered at how it seemed as if they weren't there, and then they were, from one blink to the next. Dean and Castiel had to slow their rush as they scrambled over the boulders that were slick with moisture, steaming with the heat. Pools of hot, stinking water appeared here and there. Some were on fire, flames reflected against the flat surface.

Looking back, Castiel saw the hounds had reached the edge of the rocks and were clumsily making their way over them. If need be, he would grab Dean and use his wings so they couldn't catch them, but he had to conserve his strength in that area for now – he knew what he would have to do soon enough.

Dean's foot slipped on the wet rock, and he started to fall towards a pool of flame. Castiel reached out and grabbed his bicep, yanking him back firmly. The blade of Dean's knife almost caught Castiel in the ribs, but it would've been accidental had it cut Castiel this time, and Dean pulled the blade away quickly.

The cleverer of the hounds had figured out a way to move more swiftly, leaping from the top of one boulder to the next, and was drawing ahead of them.

"That's not good," said Dean, as they climbed the next rock. "That's really not good."

The sound of howls filled the air, broken by snarls and barks.

Castiel should've sensed how close one of them had gotten, but he missed it. The hound barreled into him, knocking him down into the space between one boulder and the next. Then the beast was on him, pinning him down while Castiel tried to lift his sword against the weight pressing on his arm. The heat of a burning pool was a foot from his side, stinking so hot and fierce he gagged on it.

He heard Dean shout, and the hound snarled, baring all its rows of teeth, hot breath on Castiel's face.

As the beast snapped at Castiel's shoulder, a knife thudded into the space between the hound's eyes. The creature whimpered, shook its massive head in confusion and pain, and staggered off Castiel, who got up to his knees and then drove his sword into the monster's mouth and down its throat. Black blood splattered him again for his trouble.

He drew out his sword and pulled the blade of the knife from the creature's head.

Dean crouched above him on a ledge of rock. His expression looked stunned, as if he weren't sure where he was.

"Dean," Castiel said sharply, and Dean's shoulders twitched, his eyes focusing. Castiel flipped the knife so he held the blade flat between his fingers. He handed it back to Dean handle-first. "Here."

For a moment Castiel thought he wouldn't take it. His hand shook, but then he accepted the knife.

* * *

That took care of one hound, and that was great and all, but the rest were circling them, drawing slowly closer over the rocks. Dean bit the inside of his cheek as the memories surfaced from the back of his brain: Sam's tear-streaked face and a clock chiming midnight; claws and teeth ripping his skin open and deep-throated barks.

He'd say one thing for this Castiel dude, he was handy with that sword of his. Dean again was relieved he was even there – hallucination or not. Given a choice between facing a pack of hellhounds without Castiel, or with, Dean would go with Castiel. True, he wouldn't be there in the cold open for the hounds to chase except Castiel had led him there – but Dean wasn't torturing human souls any more, either.

Yeah, add it up however he wanted, Dean thought he was still caught in the negative numbers, although he was inching towards zero. Maybe. For the first time in decades, Dean let himself believe that maybe, maybe, he could get above it.

He turned back towards Castiel, and for the first time since he'd met him, believed in his realness. This was happening – he wasn't currently getting his skin sliced off, or cutting others open until they screamed with sounds Dean never thought human voices could make.

The pain from the burn on his shoulder flared, a hot itch beneath his skin. Castiel's wings were close enough to touch and for a moment Dean almost did, lifted his free hand towards them on impulse, recalling the muscled strength and soft give of them back in the small cave. He stopped, wondering what the fuck he was thinking, and wondering if that was a trespass he shouldn't do anyway, not if he wanted to keep his hand.

Of course, a pack of hellhounds surrounded them, so Dean didn't let himself hope too hard. He'd assume a default of screwed, thank you very fucking much; it was a lot smarter than letting himself relax. They weren't in the clear yet.

Castiel turned and met his gaze with a hard, determined look that both steadied and unnerved Dean. That shit was real enough, all right.

Dean gripped the knife, the blade already darkened with hound's blood, as Castiel climbed up next to him and raised his sword.

Running the possibilities over in his head, Dean couldn't see a good outcome for this. The hounds would bring Dean back to Alastair, and either Dean was Alastair's plaything on the rack again, or Dean went back to torturing. Castiel, they'd either tear to pieces – which, given what Dean had seen of Castiel so far, they might not manage to succeed in doing – or more likely, capture him and have him tortured.

Earlier Dean had looked on that possibility clinically – as an opportunity, nothing more. Now the concept that Castiel could be under his knife, strapped down on the rack, made Dean's stomach lurch.

"Castiel?" he said.

Castiel's expression had gone harder, his eyes on the hounds as they drew nearer. His whole body had gone preternaturally tensed and still.

The hounds got closer.

"If we're going to do something, we need to do it," Dean muttered.

Dean felt the heat of the hounds' breath now, smelled their stench. Goosebumps rose on his arms, his scalp prickling. He kept the inside of his cheek caught between his teeth, using the pain to maintain his focus, because if he didn't, all he could feel was the teeth and claws ripping into him, all he could see was Sam's stricken face. But Castiel was there and ready to fight, and Dean would fight beside him. He wasn't going to let them have him again, no fucking way.

"Close your eyes and get down," Castiel snapped out, loud and sharp.

Automatically, Dean obeyed, from years of training and instinct. He slid down off the rock to crouch in the space between that one and the next, careful to keep his feet away from the pools of water, and squeezed his eyes shut tight. Shit, this wasn't what he had in mind, tucking down out of the way, but if Castiel had something up his sleeve then Dean was willing to go with it.

The flare of light burned against Dean's eyelids, white hot. He heard high-pitched, startled whines from the hounds, then howls, sharply cut off, and a sound like balloons full of jell-o exploding. Something warm splattered over Dean that wasn't water.

Oh, _shit_.

Silence followed. Dean kept his hands over his head, cold flat of the knife against his scalp, his eyes still shut. It was driving him crazy – he couldn't tell what was going on. He couldn't hear the hounds, didn't hear the sound of fighting, nothing from Castiel at all.

Panic was starting to twitch in his chest when Castiel said, "All right, Dean." Castiel's voice sounded strained, thinner than before.

Dean opened his eyes. Bits of hellhound guts covered him, along with the black blood, and splattered over the rocks and ground. He stood up slowly and saw Castiel with hellhound guts and blood on his clothes as well. Castiel's back was straight but he swayed a little. Dean noticed his breathing was too quick, the first time he'd seen Castiel show that kind of fatigue.

"Uh…what did you do?"

"I unleashed some of my grace at them," Castiel said. "Although I believe it couldn't harm your soul here, I took precautions."

"Oh," said Dean, and instinctively his hand went up to cover his shoulder, which still ached slightly. He looked around at the remains of the pack of hellhounds. "Huh. That was actually…kind of cool."

Castiel gave him a sideways look, and then there was a tiny shift around his eyes, his mouth – he looked almost pleased. Then he put his hand to his face.

"What?" Dean asked.

"It's nothing," Castiel said, lowering his hand. "In Hell, my powers are not what they are on earth or Heaven. This realm belongs to the demons, and they're strongest here. I'm perfectly fine," he added quickly.

Seriously, Dean was starting to like this guy.

"You sure?" Dean said.

"Yes," Castiel said firmly.

"Good, because otherwise the way you're swaying on your feet might have me worried."

"I'm not swaying on my feet," Castiel said, holding himself ramrod straight, abruptly going still.

"'Course not." Dean shook his leg to dislodge some hellhound guts. He breathed shallowly to avoid breathing the stuff in too much.

"Give me a few moments to recover and I'll remove their remains from our clothes," Castiel said, climbing down to join Dean.

"It doesn't really matter," Dean said. "So…now what?"

"I believe we're nearly at the place we need to be. A little further."

"Let's do this, then," Dean said, and started climbing over the next boulder.

Whatever Castiel had done to himself, he didn't seem to be having trouble moving. He went a little less briskly than he had before. Once, he slipped on a wet rock and Dean's fingers closed around his elbow, steadying him. Castiel seemed embarrassed at the gesture, immediately pulling away.

* * *

It was best not to think of what Castiel knew still lay ahead of them, what he would have to do to pull Dean Winchester out of Hell – and pull him out of Hell, he would. He let the intensity of the want run loose through him this time, while an insidious murmur at the back of his mind asked what he would do if the orders were to change, if revelation found him and told him to leave Dean where he was, to abandon him. Surely that choice would never come to pass, and he couldn't imagine why his Father would change his mind on something of this much importance.

An insidious weakness filled Castiel's limbs. Using his grace in Hell had drained him more than any battle he'd ever been in. The air itself was against him, seeming to have weight with the press of sulfur and other stenches of Hell. He longed for Heaven, or for earthly mountain tops, for stars, for the stir of wings nearby, letting him know he wasn't alone.

This man, Dean, was brave -- but he was only a man, and he seemed very small indeed against the vast size of Hell. The small stones were sharp, and Castiel noted how gingerly Dean moved up the slope in his bare feet.

There was a comfort in walking side by side, Castiel decided.

They got past the field of rocks, climbing up a dirt slope covered in broken bits of bone and pebbles. Fissures in the ground spat up angry steam tinged with red. Thin spires of rust-colored rock that made Castiel think of human cathedrals rose against the dim gray sky. Hazily, beyond the smoke, the great cavern walls were visible, rising higher than his human eyes could track, although he sensed the full reach of its height, where it met the fold in space that separated it from the curve of the earth.

At the crest of the slope, Castiel and Dean stopped.

"Holy fucking shit," Dean said.

Far below them spread a lake, the surface gone molten from the reflection of the flames that burned on its surface.

"So to speak," Dean added.

The two of them stood a while and watched it burn. Castiel hadn't intended that they should stop, but with both of them tiring, it seemed natural to do so. Dean sat down and drew his knees up, staring down at the lake, and after a moment, Castiel joined him, even though he knew they couldn't afford to stay still like this for long.

He studied Dean's profile, the close-cropped hair, full mouth, the line of his jaw, his neck, the curve of his ear, the freckles that showed slight on his face and more on his lower arms. This was vastly different and yet the same as the image he'd seen before going into Hell. That seemed a long time ago, even as angels measured time.

Dean turned, and he seemed startled to find Castiel watching him so intently. Turning away quickly, Castiel got to his feet.

"It's time," he said, and held out a hand to help Dean up.

"Time for what?" Dean said, ignoring it. He pushed himself to his feet, wincing.

Castiel noticed blood staining the place where Dean had stepped. There was nothing to be done about it now, and it didn't look like a lot. He would restore Dean to all the clothes he'd died in once he'd pulled him out. Hell had cheated – Dean was not exactly as he was at the moment of his death.

"We're near one of the smaller and lesser known exits to Hell. I'm going to pull you out."

"Oh." Dean's hand went up, his fingers twisting the amulet he wore. "Seriously?" He looked terribly young for a second, almost eager, before the harder façade returned.

"I am deadly serious," Castiel said, wondering why Dean should doubt him, after everything. He frowned, wondering at the sharp sting of irritation he felt, and why it wasn't completely unpleasant.

He reached a hand out to Dean, who drew back with a feral wariness, holding the blade of the knife between himself and Castiel. "What?" Dean said flatly.

Something slotted together in Castiel's head, and he understood. "I should've asked first. Allow me to explain: the exit is up there." He leaned his head back, looking upward.

"Up there," Dean said. "You mean we have to go…"

"It would be best if I used my wings and carried you."

"Oh, oh, wait just a second there, Hawkman." Dean backed up further and held up his free hand. The black blood of the hounds was on his jeans and his shirt, though not as much on him as on Castiel, who hadn't wanted to spare the energy to clean it off this time. "Wait. You mean we have to _fly_?" He swallowed hard, and the fingers of his empty hand twitched convulsively.

"It would be the best way, yes."

"Forget it. Uh-uh. I knew this was a bad idea anyway. Like I said, you should've just left me where I was." Dean's voice was a fraction unsteady, eyes going flat and dull, almost as remote as when Castiel had first seen him in the cave room where he was torturing souls.

Castiel needed no heightened angel senses to spot it this time, for the surface mask to grow clear for him. He noted the way Dean's hand twitched into a fist and opened again, how he stepped backwards.

"You have a greater purpose," Castiel began.

"Yeah, you said that already," Dean said tiredly.

"Why are you so stubborn?"

"Why are you?"

"Fine," Castiel said, his irritation increasing to an unaccustomed degree. He took a deep breath to calm himself – this anger was unseemly. One thing he'd learned: he couldn't force Dean to do anything, unless he used brute physical force. Another strategy was in order. "You go back to Alastair then," he said, and it was like something had sliced through his chest.

Castiel began to walk along the crest of the slope in the direction of the cavern wall that rose hazy in the distance. He didn't look back.

He went many yards before he heard Dean speak behind him. "Castiel."

Castiel stopped and turned.

Dean held the blade of the knife down low along his thigh, arms hanging loose at his sides, lines of his face softened – pleading and lost. "I'm afraid of flying," he said. "But not as much as I want to go home. I have to find my brother." He swallowed. "Sam. I need to get back to Sam."

"Your devotion to duty is admirable," said Castiel, walking back towards Dean.

"Duty," Dean said, like he didn't quite know what the word meant. "Been looking after Sam my whole life. But it's…I wouldn't call it duty. He watches my back too. Not sure when he got taller than me. He's always…he's always been stubborn though. And he does this sad puppy-eye routine that sometimes he does on purpose and sometimes he doesn't even know he's doing it, and man, how it'll work on you. He has this way of connecting with people." Dean let out a shaky breath. "He's smart ass, a good kid, and I left him alone up there and…I gotta…"

"Then let me," Castiel said. He'd moved in close without Dean pulling away.

"What the hell," Dean said, resigned. "How do we –"

Castiel turned. "Put your arms around my neck, I'll carry you on my back, between my wings."

"You're kidding. No, you're not." Dean looked down at the knife in his hands. He turned it, tracing his thumb along the flat of the blood-stained blade.

A muscle in his jaw twitched, and then Dean drew back his arm and hurled the knife away from him as hard as he could.

It turned over and over, glinting as it fell towards the surface of the burning lake.

Then Dean moved up close behind him, and Castiel felt his body gingerly push against Castiel, and Dean's arms went carefully around him and across his chest.

* * *

For a moment nothing happened; they were two guys a little too close for Dean's comfort. Then Castiel's wings snapped wider, with a sound like a sail catching the wind, black shadows spreading on either side. Dean felt the push of them against his arms.

"Jesus _fuck_ ," Dean muttered, his stomach plunging as Castiel leapt from the top of the slope. They fell for a few heart-stopping seconds towards the lake before rising through the heated air.

So. Okay. So maybe this guy really was an angel.

The flames of the lake leapt higher, licking upward as if trying to snatch them out of the sky. The horizon line tipped from the wave of vertigo that hit him, and Dean stopped looking down, kept his gaze straight ahead, Castiel's dark hair tickling his nose. It seemed impossible he could carry Dean's weight – he was a lot smaller than Dean, after all, yet the wiry strength of Castiel's body and wings seemed as secure as riding in the Impala. Didn't keep his heart from hammering in his chest or his mouth going even drier (he wanted water so fucking _much_ ).

Dean started to sing softly under his breath, _rover wanderer/nomad vagabond/call me what you will,_ fighting off dizziness as Castiel turned his body and swept them upwards, following the line of the cavern wall that rose like an endless cliff.

Eventually, the air began to smell less like sulfur – it still stank, but Dean caught other things too, earth and stone, which were present down below but masked. The memory-scents of gasoline, vinyl, hot metal, gun oil, that stupid herbal shampoo Sam sometimes used, beer and old wood, and hamburgers followed, rushed suddenly in at him.

Castiel's body tensed beneath his grip and he wobbled in mid-air. A small sound escaped him, hard to catch but it sounded a lot like a stifled grunt of pain. Their ascent slowed, and they started to drop.

"Castiel?" Dean said, gripping tighter and wondering if he might puke.

With a twist of his upper body, Castiel aimed for the wall, reached out and found handholds, stopping their fall with a lurch. They dangled there, Castiel's wings spread against the wall, Dean clinging to his back.

"My wing," Castiel said. "It was injured early in the siege."

"I get it," Dean said. "Harder to fly with the extra weight."

"The weight of your human body would be nothing, normally. But we're in Hell, my strength is lessened merely by my being here, even without my injuries."

Dean paused. "Take me back down. It's over."

"No." The word came out sharp and fierce.

A wind whistled over the rock face, carrying with it the stenches from below. Dean didn't dare look down even for a second.

"How do we get out of here, then?" Dean thought he could feel Castiel's heartbeat along with his own. The surface of Castiel's wings was strong, soft but pliant against his arms, and not really like feathers. They made Dean think more of his old leather jacket.

"We climb."

"Climb? You want us to climb the fucking Cliffs of Insanity?" Dean snorted.

"You want to get back to your brother?" Castiel turned his head, trying to look Dean in the face; Dean felt his body shift beneath him. "Then you'll climb," he said, brittle and hard.

He reached back and gripped Dean's bicep, holding him tightly. Dean got what he was supposed to do; he sidled himself over, leaning on Castiel's wing, until he could grip the wall. Castiel's grip steadied him, and then Dean had his toes in footholds and his hands around the handholds in the rock.

Beside him, Castiel kept his wing hovering behind Dean as they began to climb together. Finding hand-holds and foot-holds wasn't that difficult, since the surface of the cavern wall was varied and rough, but Dean's feet and his palms stung. After a while he started seeing traces of blood on the rock as he moved his hand from one hold to the next.

Humming under his breath, Dean glanced over at Castiel, whose face was impassive and calm. He'd given himself over to the immediate task of climbing, but Dean noticed the way his eyes flicked up the cliff-face, and then down, and sometimes over to Dean – checking on him, thinking ten steps ahead. Castiel's dark hair stuck up in a spiky mess, clotted with hounds' blood. It struck Dean again how ordinary this guy came across as, and yet not. Slim neck, strong chin line, full mouth – his eyes were unusually blue, and of course there were the friggin' wings, but beyond that, with his intense focus, and the sense of an infinite amount of things kicking around beneath the quiet features, the uncanny beneath the stillness, he was anything but ordinary. Mostly, beyond the uncanniness and behind the intent stares, Dean had seen how much Castiel wanted to make things right, the distress in the face of suffering.

It had been forty years since Dean had seen anything or anyone that looked like that – that looked at him like that.

As they climbed, Castiel's wing kept hovering right behind Dean, blocking some of the wind. Every so often the wing brushed against Dean back by accident, but every time it happened, it gave Dean the impression it might've been purposeful. It pushed back his panic, as if there was a net ready to catch him if he fell.

* * *

Hand over hand, Castiel found the climb painstaking and slow. The pull on his arms and legs didn't tire him – it was his wing that troubled him, a thread of hot pain that ran along the top of his wing, originating where he'd struck the wall. He couldn't carry Dean's weight, but he managed to keep his wing spread, sheltering Dean, as he appeared to be extremely nervous about falling. Dean took several moments to change each handhold, letting go slowly before grabbing the next.

Castiel enjoyed the sound of Dean's humming, rich and low in his throat, as he had the man's singing voice. It was a warm sound, chasing away loneliness. Possibly he shouldn't think such things. He could almost hear Balthazar's comments on the matter.

He hoped Balthazar and the others had escaped Hell already. Perhaps they were looking for him, but with the Righteous Man truly missing now, they would give up, regroup and find another way to fulfill God's mission. Castiel didn't dare try calling to them, the demons would hear. For now, he and Dean were relatively safe, here at the upper reaches of the very edge of Hell.

After many more hours, as humans might measure it, of climbing, they reached the exit. Nothing marked the spot as unusual save for a slight hollowed-out curve in the rock wall that was a little too smooth to be accidental.

"This is it?" Dean said, halting his climb when Castiel halted. He appeared skeptical, clinging to the rock, all fatigue and hope drawn clear on his features, raw and exposed as the cliff face.

"Yes," said Castiel.

"Doesn't look like much," Dean said, and the mask was back in place, his tone dismissive.

Dean was very exasperating, Castiel decided. Impatient, demanding, suspicious, expecting everything to be exactly what it appeared to be. Dean clung to the wall, the fingers of his left hand gripping convulsively, and Castiel caught the faint tremble in the man's shoulder muscles. Castiel's irritation was gone like it had never been. Anger replaced his annoyance, turning to the things that had been done to Dean Winchester.

He snapped off the thought, which veered too close to doubt. Everything happened for a reason, part of the larger pattern, and God had a reason why Dean had been tortured, and he had a reason why he should be rescued from Hell now.

Castiel scraped the back of his arm over a sharply jutting piece of rock until he bled. Dean's eyes widened as Castiel gripped the rock and dipped the fingers of his other hand into his own blood. He painted the sigil into the circle, then spoke the phrases he needed, Enochian familiar and easy on his lips. The sense of erosion abated, that tide of Hell that threatened to encroach and devour his being.

White light blazed along the lines of the blood sigil, starkly illuminating Dean as he turned his head away. The rock shimmered, rippling like water.

Castiel reached his bloodied hand towards Dean's forehead, and paused.

"To take you through, I need to carry your soul in its true form. You can't stay in the semblance you're in now."

The light defined Dean's features in unnaturally sharp detail, every hair and freckle and curve of his face and body. He didn't say anything, his fingers tightening on the hand-holds on the rock.

"Your soul, while it's brighter than I'd expect given what you've been through, is battered and damaged. If I put it back into your body as it is now, the shock of it could drive you mad. I don't have the power to fix it permanently, but I can ease the transition for you, I can temporarily bury your memories of Hell. They'll return to you gradually, in fragments, until you remember everything. Letting it out a little at a time should be safe. Had you been here for much longer, I wouldn't have been able to do even that much. My powers have limits."

"How much will I forget?" There was a slight scratch under Dean's words, a break in his normal breathing.

"You'll remember everything up to your death," Castiel said, "and you'll remember arriving in Hell. For a time, all you'll remember next will be waking up back in your body."

"So Alastair, me being tortured, and then cutting into those souls – that'll be gone?"

"Only temporarily, I'm afraid."

"Will I remember this?" Dean jerked his head, indicating the cliff-face. "Will I remember…you?"

"Eventually," Castiel said. "Earlier things about your time here will return sooner than later things."

For a moment it seemed like Dean might ask, again, to be returned to the depths of Hell, to be left behind.

But then Dean said, "What're you waiting for?"

"I'm not sure," Castiel said, "but I think it's best if I have your permission."

The wind, arid yet cleaner now that the portal was open, pulled at them both. Castiel shifted his wing to make sure Dean didn't fall, the light of the portal between them.

"Yeah, okay." Dean said. "Do it."

Castiel touched his fingers to Dean's forehead. The semblance of Dean's body shimmered the way the portal had, and his soul collapsed in on itself, forming a ball of light that Castiel caught very carefully in the palm of his hand. It was hot to the touch and it flared and flickered, transmitting to Castiel the moods and thoughts that made him think of the man he'd traveled with. Dean's soul was agitated, confused. Castiel held it to his chest and pushed his way through the portal.

In the fraction of space between Hell and the Earthly dimension, Castiel shed the semblance of Jimmy Novak's body, hurtling himself and his cargo instantaneously to the place where Dean's body was buried. The force of pulling a soul across the barrier between Hell and Earth shook the air and ripped the ground apart, uprooting tall, strong trees.

The light of Dean's soul and Castiel's own form filled the dark space, revealing the decayed state of Dean's human shell inside a pine box. Beneath the clothing, someone had carefully and precisely stitched the torn flesh closed, as if to make Dean as whole again as possible.

Out of Hell's reach and in his true form, Castiel found it easy to gather his strength again. He restored the decayed internal organs, healed the wounded flesh, smoothed over every scar he could find. Every violation Dean's body had taken, Castiel undid, all save the scar on his shoulder. Since it was a soul-wound, it had to remain. Castiel was startled at the sense of shame and regret that made him hesitate in the middle of his work, fearful of doing more damage.

He finished rebuilding Dean's body and lowered his soul, burning brightly, into his chest, and sent Dean's heart beating again. Castiel drew away, watched and waited as Dean sucked the first agonized gasp of air into his lungs. Dean called for help, his voice thin and hoarse, then began to punch and kick through the wood, fighting his way out of the box and upwards, into the dirt.

The summons arrived without warning, two of Castiel's brothers snatching him away before Castiel could protest, and he was unable to stay long enough to make sure Dean crawled to the surface safely.

* * *

There was Sam's face, streaked with tears, the chiming of the clock, the barking of hellhounds before their claws pulled him down, ripping him open. Blackness, and then waking with a hook driven through his body, caught on a web of chains where he screamed Sam's name and no one ever answered.

The next thing Dean knew it was pitch dark and he was lying on his back somewhere so quiet the silence pressed on his ears. The air he drew in seared his lungs; he had to think about the process of breathing for a minute or so until it became less of a struggle, settling back to automatic. He smelled damp earth and wood. His shoulder ached and stung as if he'd been burned, but hours ago.

Dean fumbled for his lighter, gasping for help, and no one answered. His voice was hoarse, the forming and shape of words unfamiliar in his throat. He punched at the lid of the coffin, choking as dirt fell down on his face, into his nose and mouth.

His heart hammering in his chest, chasing off the panic of being confined, buried alive, and suffocated, Dean crawled his way up through the dirt until his hand broke through the surface.

He thought he heard someone say _remember this_ as he pulled himself free of the earth, lay on his back, and pulled clean air into his lungs, the heat of the sun spreading over his face like forgiveness.

* * *

 **Epilogue**

It had been a very, very long time since Castiel had been home. The last traces of the canted, off-center, unsettled effect of Hell lifted from him. Yet he found himself restless, unsure of where to be, what he ought to be doing.

"Castiel!" Balthazar found him on the sands of a beach belonging to the endless sunset of a soldier who had died in Afghanistan. "So, you didn't fall to the demons, and you managed to rescue our Righteous Man. How I have absolutely no idea. I thought you were hellhound meat."

"You as well," Castiel said. It was good to see Balthazar, and the strength of the gratitude and warmth he felt, looking upon him, was alarming in its degree. "Thank you for what you did," he said formally.

"Stop, you're embarrassing me." Balthazar laughed and a few seagulls took flight in alarm.

"The others, are they --?"

"Uriel and Rachel made it out, as did a number of the rest of the angels." His tone darkened. "We lost many of our brothers and sisters."

Castiel couldn't recall if he'd felt regret this strongly before. It wasn't as if he had never lost siblings in battle before, but this was different. He turned towards the sunset, the striations of color making him think of fire and rock and the burn of grace as an angel was consumed by smoke or stabbed with their own blade. He'd been to this beach before, and the sunset used to bring him only peace.

The imagined scent of sulfur was barely shaken from his memory when Zachariah demanded his presence.

"Uh-oh, the higher-ups want to see you." It was easy to imagine Balthazar's chosen human vessel tsk-ing his tongue against the roof of his mouth. "Make sure your feathers are in order."

Zachariah was in his favorite place in Heaven, an office belonging to a legendary businessman and philanthropist of the United States in the 1930's. The leather couches were thick and soft, the wood varnished dark and smooth. Landscape paintings hung on the walls. The room, like many spaces of Heaven Castiel had been before, no longer seemed quite as he remembered them, and yet the details were the same, nothing altered.

The room seemed stifling, too small.

"Castiel, it's time we had a little chat." Zachariah looked stern. "You took over a platoon after its leader fell, and then left them in order to carry out the mission on your own."

"I overstepped myself," Castiel said. "I shouldn't have…" He wanted to add how difficult it had been, the confusion and the heat that should have been nothing to him, but wasn't, the smells and screams of the souls, how he'd made the best decision he could in impossible circumstances.

Dean might understand, he thought unexpectedly. Equally expected was how he sharply craved the man's sardonic tone, the face he made when he was skeptical. Castiel imagined Dean having very little patience with a being like Zachariah.

"Oh, yes, yes you did, you scamp. But you also showed initiative under pressure and more importantly, a dedication to God's orders, a single-mindedness of purpose. That's something to be valued."

"Thank you," Castiel said, surprised.

"That's why I've assigned you to be the head of a special garrison we're stationing on earth. Not to watch – you'll all be taking vessels. We have a specific purpose for this garrison. Uriel will be your second."

"Yes, sir," Castiel said, because there was no other response that seemed proper. He wanted to ask what the garrison's purpose was, but perhaps that would be presumptuous.

Zachariah's wings rustled, and he continued. "I have a particular task for you in addition to leading the garrison. Dean Winchester is now in your charge. It's your job to guide him, test him, and prepare him for what we'll need him to do."

"What is that, sir?" Castiel ventured.

"All in good time, Castiel. Not yet," Zachariah said. "You understand that these things are on a need-to-know-basis. The stakes are very high. Very high indeed."

"Of course."

"Before you take your chosen human vessel, approach Dean first. See if he'll accept you as a vessel, if he's capable of it."

This was confusing. Vessels were determined by bloodline. However, the idea of Dean being receptive to him, of being able to hear Castiel's true voice – he thought he might like that. He remembered standing with Dean on the ridge of earth overlooking the burning lake, the arc of Dean's arm as he threw away his knife, the sound of Dean's humming as they walked. Castiel had no word for what he was feeling, but it reminded him of the times when he'd acutely missed Heaven.

"All right," Castiel said.

"Don't actually claim him. We just need to feel out some potentials here, find out which way the market's trending, as the humans say. Dean is destined for great things. We need to make sure he's ready." Zachariah made a kindly but dismissive sound. "I'll have further revelation for you later. You may go."

Back on the beach, alone this time save for the fallen soldier who he made sure never to disturb by being visible to him, Castiel looked out over the green ocean. The soldier picked up a piece of driftwood and threw it while his dog barked and leapt joyously after it.

He'd been given a grave responsibility. There could be no more doubts, no more mistakes, or over-stepping his role. Dean was his assignment.

Castiel wouldn't fail.

~end

 

DCBB citations and notes.  
Plus things that may only be amusing to me, but I'm telling you anyway

*Monty Python transcript from [Pythonet](http://orangecow.org/pythonet/).  
*Lyrics from “You Do Something To Me” by Cole Porter.  
*Lyrics from "Stairway to Heaven" by Jimmy Page and Robert Plant  
*Portions of Castiel's pov were inspired by _A Rumor of War_ by Phil Caputo  
*Quotes taken from _The George Burns and Gracie Allen Radio Show_  
*Lyrics from "You Go to My Head" by Billie Holiday and Chet Baker  
*Lyrics from "Wherever I May Roam" by James Hetfield and Lars Ulrich  
*The ruins of villa epecuen provided a lot of visual inspiration, as did photos of the angel caves (Caves of Pertosa) in Italy from flickr.  
*If you're curious, the music Castiel sends into the Novaks' stereo is probably this (which was included on the gold record on the Voyager mission)

Thank you to obeetaybee, ariadnes_string, twoskeletons, and murron for the music to write by, and to all my DCBB cheerleaders.

This: http://notesfromdeanandcas.tumblr.com/post/8507505106 might as well have been my summary.


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